


The Scratchable Itch

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Because of course he is., Chair Sex, Communication, Condoms, Feelings, Frustrated John, Gay Sex, Grumpy John, John has sex with a woman, John is Not Amused, John is a Sex God, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Not with John - but previously, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sex, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is Wanton, Shower Sex, Slow To Update, Slow to post chapters, Spanking, Tiny hint of previous non con, bossy bottom Sherlock, but is thinking of Sherlock, but this writing lark is hard, safe sex, we love you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-01-16 17:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “Relationships are not really something I partake in, that much is true, but I am no stranger to healthy, satisfying, mind-boggling, body shaking, hot, rough, writhing intercourse.”





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock abruptly, determinedly, planted himself before John as he sat in his chair and loomed over to pluck the book he’d been reading from his hands with a whipping flourish, and chucked it over his shoulder to the living room rug, “I haven’t been _entirely_ forthright with you,” he murmured, voice deep, hushed, and cheeks rosy, pupils wide. He leaned forward, resting his hands on both armrests and John frowned, surprised and suspicious of his behaviour, of his flustered appearance. Before he could question it, or reach toward him, Sherlock pushed in, inching bit by bit as he took a quick inhale and continued to speak. “Relationships are not _really_ something I partake in, that much is true, but I am no stranger to healthy, satisfying, _mind-boggling_ , body shaking, _hot_ , rough, _writhing_ intercourse.” Almost nose to nose with John, Sherlock let out a quivering breath, the hot air interlaced with a vibrating growl, and dug his fingers into the chair until it creaked from the strain. “And I find myself currently _wanting_.”

John licked his bottom lip and squinted up at Sherlock, “You… _Wow_. Okay. That's...that’s quite a lot to take in,” he said quietly, still trying to figure out what precisely was going on and if it was actually real, if it was instead some sort of play acting for a case, for one of his stupid studies that involved torturing John. When Sherlock refused to back away or dial down his intensifying gaze, John coughed out a laugh of disbelief. “So...what? You… you want to _have_ _sex_? W-With me?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock drawled with a quirking eyebrow. “I _can_ go without, or rather I put it to the back of my mind and ignore it, focus on other things, more _important_ things, but it _builds_ up and…” He smirked promiscuously and pressed just an inch closer, rubbing their noses together, making John flinch back. “And _erupts_. Engulfs me. _Overwhelms_ me.”

“Sherlock...” John began, trying to collect his thoughts so he didn't ramble, he couldn’t do that right now. Not now. Even though his heart was pounding, even as his blood rushed hot and fast, even while his skin tingled in anticipation of another touch. “I'm... flattered you thought of me but, well, I don't think that’s a good idea. We're friends, colleagues, _flatmates_ … we could completely mess everything up by sleeping together. - I… I'm not saying no because you're a _man._ I'm just saying that it could ruin us and so it’s really not... great.”

Sherlock frowned at him in discontent, then snarled, pulling back and pacing rigidly, like a caged animal, gesturing with big sweeping arcs of his arms and flexing signals of his hands, “ _How_?” he demanded at last, despite all the fanfare. “You _like_ sex. It’s something you’re constantly seeking, watching, and participating in. I’m offering it, no strings attached, in the knowledge that we would both receive what we crave. _What’s the problem_? - If I were some lusting woman you’d jump at the chance--”

“The _problem_ is that if I stick my dick in you, it might change our relationship!” John insisted in frustration, trying to ignore the increased throb of want he could feel in his genitals, in the tips of his fingers, and both temples, “I mean for God’s sake, what if we develop feelings? _Any_ kind of feelings. What if after we've done it you decide you want to go and find someone else? Whether satisfied or not, it could alter how we feel about one another, it would shift the foundations of our friendship and make it into...something _else_. -There are _too_ many alternatives here, more of them bad, so it’s safer if we don't.”

“If we don’t, I _wi_ _ll_ go find someone else!” Sherlock snapped sullenly, putting his hands on his hips and pacing faster, walking in front of John’s chair and then stepping up and over the coffee table when he changed the path he was stomping. He whirled around, a groove almost worn into the carpet and threw out his arms again. “ _Any_ kind of feelings, you say, what does that even _mean_? What sort of feelings specifically?—John, I’ve had and thought about this issue _extensively_ for _years._ It’s plagued me since I was an adolescent! This has _nothing_ to do with _feelings_ of whatever nature you’re imagining. Just _raw_ , _unbridled_ , _sweaty_ , _hard_ , _exhilarating_ _coitus_!”

“ _Stop saying sex words_!” John hissed, standing up to block Sherlock from pacing over again and jabbing a finger into the man’s chest, pushing back on the desire to pop open the straining buttons, “Sex gets messy! It gets intense and hormonally charged and I don't want that to ruin us, you _idiot_! - And no one really should have sex with strangers, least of all you. You… you don't know what they're riddled with! Do you know the STI stats for London? It's a _minefield_!”

“Then _give it_ to me, John! Give in to me. _I need something_!” Sherlock snarled in response, pushing into John’s finger hard enough that he had to put his entire hand in its place to stop from being nudged back. “I need something other than lubricated, buzzing plastic!” With a heated glare Sherlock then jerked into movement and began attacking the buttons of his own shirt, popping them open swiftly, just as John had yearned to do, and tugging the shirt tails from where they’d been neatly tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “ _Take me_. Anywhere. Everywhere. Against the wall. Over the sofa. Into the fridge. _Up the window_!”

“ _Jesus_! Stop it!” John urged, grabbing at Sherlock's shirt with both hands, not wanting to see any more of his pale toned chest than what was already on show. He was on edge and shaking. They both were. But John couldn’t give in and let this happen. Couldn’t lose him to complications. “What is _wrong_ with you? Go and have a wank if you’re that desperate!”

Sherlock scoffed, “ _Oh please_! You know as well as I do that masturbation is _nothing_ compared to skin on skin contact. To the _glorious friction_ between two bodies, two people. To the _slick_ , _reeling_ , _lust fuelled act of sex_ ,” he retorted, reaching down to start on his trousers once John refused to remove his clasping grip, dragging the zip down noisily, pointedly. “ _Take me_ , John. Bend me over and _fuck_ me.”

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” John moaned, feeling himself caving, giving in, hyper-aware of how hard Sherlock's nipples were under his palms. He swallowed a mouth full of saliva with a wince, knowing Sherlock could see and deduce his answer just from that alone, and watched his own fingers skim across the broad, heaving torso. “This is bad. This is _so bad_ …” He felt his cock further stirring, stiffening and engorging enough to hurt. “ _Promise me_ that you won’t go pick up some random person if you change your mind? Say this won’t interfere with us? Tell me we won't _regret_ this?”

“I know _you_ won’t,” Sherlock purred cockily and grabbed John’s forearm in a bruising grasp, taking his words as acceptance, as agreement, and dragging him out of the living room, through the kitchen and toward the open door of Sherlock’s bedroom. John barely had time to blink out of his daze before he was thrown to the bed at a bounce, banging his knee and toppling over in an undignified heap.

“Condoms are there,” Sherlock told him with a nod to his bedside table while he shrugged off his shirt, slid out of his trousers, and then kicked the door closed, flinging his clothes aside. “ _Strip_.”

“Wait… _slow down_...” John growled, righting himself first before he began pulling off his own shirt and kicking off his shoes, almost instinctively eager, “you're going too fast. I need a – I need a bit of coaxing. Some touch, you know?”

“Oh don’t be such a bore,” Sherlock complained, freeing his very flushed and tight looking erection with a sigh of relief, unembarrassed. It nudged against his stomach as he bent to step out of his underwear, leaving a smear of glistening moisture, and then bobbed as he strolled with a full on swagger, to rummage in his drawers, pulling out a half used bottle of lube.

John bit back a choked sound at the sight, slamming his eyes closed and counting to ten. His own cock was now fully erect, angled uncomfortably against the biting inside of his zipper, and so he carefully shimmied off his trousers, kicking them into a pile along with his boxers and socks. His mind was abuzz with clashing thoughts. It was bad, he knew, yet he couldn’t stop. He felt almost sick with want and riddled with guilt because of that want.

Sitting naked on Sherlock's bed felt a little bit awkward and, unsure of what to do next, John opened his mouth and thoughtlessly spoke, “I'm not… I haven't… I _don't_ bottom.” he heard himself say uneasily, “Never have. Don't want it really. Not my...thing, you know? Just, uh, just getting that out there, so we know where we stand.”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed glance and snagged up a condom packet, throwing it at John’s bare chest and flashing an impressed smile when John caught it, “Put it on,” he ordered, clicking the top off the lubricant and dowsing his long fingers, rubbing them together as he gave John a sideways look. He then reached the hand back, sliding each digit between his buttocks with a quivering sigh. “We’ll see what you _really_ are very soon.”

“Yeah.” Fiddling with the wrapper, John opened it shakily and rolled it on, giving his shaft a few timid strokes, a soft whine leaving his throat at the touch. It had been too long since he’d last had sex, far too long. Especially this sort of sex. Never had he expected this to actually happen with Sherlock. Masturbation fantasies were one thing, but now it was happening in real life, John was slightly terrified.

Sherlock ignored him for a few moments as he worked himself and shifted to lean against the nearby wall, resting on one elbow, the fingers of his right hand working with a slick and wet precision. Penetrating, preparing, and on every deep push, spreading him open. “Lie back on the bed,” Sherlock instructed bossily.

“This is _such_ a bad idea.” John moaned, shuffling across the bed to lie in the middle. He plumped up the pillows under his head and anxiously rubbed a hand across his stomach, trying to distract himself, feeling incredibly humiliated and more than a little nervous. Nervous about the situation, about their decision, and about his incoming performance. Sherlock seemed strangely experienced, something John had not really expected, and he wasn’t sure if the flicking flame in his gut was pathetic unneeded jealousy or pleasantly surprised arousal.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sherlock griped, rocking his hand with a roll of his wrist, the muscles in his working arm flexing with a ripple of strength and skill. “You do _everything_ you can to get in bed with a woman. Almost _salivating at the mouth_ by the mere thought of it. You don’t think about anything but getting _inside_ her. Enjoying her _heat_ , the sounds she makes. Basking in the knowledge that those noises are because of _you_ , because of what you’re _doing_ to her…” Panting, Sherlock shuddered at his own words, from his own hand, penis twitching with a wet dribbling line of pre-ejaculate. “Pretend I’m some horny woman. Or that fake vagina you purchased three months ago that you’ve taken to hiding in the back of your wardrobe.”

“At least the Fleshlight is _silent_ ,” John grumbled, stroking his latex covered shaft and trailing his fingers down to his bollocks.

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, “ _Touché_ ,” he murmured with a curl of a grin, pressing his brow against the wall for a minute as he fingered himself with more enthusiasm, rolling his hips, shaking, and exhaling with a low moan. It was an extremely delicious sight, one John never thought of seeing. John stared, trying to remember it all in case their choice ended up destroying them, or it was a one time thing and was never repeated.

Sherlock probably spent another minute, if that, away from John, getting himself ready, providing John with an attractive display of pinking skin and trembling muscles, until he removed his fingers, pushed from the wall and swiftly climbed the bed to straddle him. John focused on the warmth from Sherlock's thighs, the tickling brush of his leg hairs, and the slick of lubricant, which had dribbled down to coat his skin, as Sherlock positioned above. He reached over John to rest one arm across the headboard and reached the other down to take hold of John's cock, aligning him with a rumbling hum.

“ _Slowly_ ,” John warned, lifting an eyebrow solemnly, “I don't want you hurting yourself because you're an impatient twat.”

“Be quiet,” Sherlock muttered, covering John’s mouth with, thankfully, the hand not smeared in lubricant. “ _Don’t_ talk. _Don’t_ touch me. Just let me enjoy this.”

John considered biting Sherlock's fingers, but all thoughts left his head as the first inch of him was pushed into the tight, hot, hot, hot heat of Sherlock's body. It was beyond description. John groaned, the sound barely muffled by Sherlock's hand, and clutched at the bedding, then the downy skin of Sherlock's strong thighs.

“Hush now...” Sherlock took his time, biting down on his bottom lip, eyes closing in bliss as he sank further. His face, neck and chest flushing with ignited arousal. “ _Yes_ …just what I needed...” His whispered words tapered off into catching, huffing breaths, and he grabbed again for the headboard, this time with both hands, once John was halfway within.

Clenching his toes in the already crumpled duvet, John fought the urge to thrust up and sheathe himself entirely, and instead slipped his hands up Sherlock's legs, stroking his thumbs over the hollow of his pelvis and gasped quietly in pleasure, “ _Fuck_ , you're tight.”

“ _Shush_ ,” Sherlock reprimanded, giving John’s side a nudge with his knee as he undulated his hips, pressing down the rest of the way in one steady gliding movement. Settling into place, Sherlock then reached for his own penis, catching a droplet of pre-ejaculate that had beaded at the flushed tip and wiping it on his own stomach. With that done, something John found abruptly erotic, Sherlock grabbed for an extra condom, hesitated, and gave it a questioning wave. “Yes? No? Do you care if I ejaculate on you? - I normally wear one to cut down on mess, but you seem very—”

“Yes. Sure. I don’t mind it,” John nodded, finding it harder and harder to fully concentrate, “but could you...move… grind down... _something_?”

Sherlock tossed the condom away, rolling his eyes, and wiggled his hips in a rotating, squirming, purely teasing motion, “Of course, but before that I should make you aware of the concise regulations I prefer my partner to stick to: So, you can touch me _anywhere_ you like,” he said, “however, leave my genitals alone for the first half. During the second half though, you have full rein.”

Giving a nod in agreement, John cupped a hold of Sherlock's bent knees and rocked his hips up in a gentle motion. It felt good, it felt really good, and John's confidence, after the third to fourth thrust, began to grow. He knew sex, was good at it, and he wanted Sherlock to experience what sex with John Watson was all about, and so he stroked his fingers to Sherlock's buttocks and spread them wide, opening him wider. Fingertips just about brushing at the sides of his slippery shaft as he adjusted the pace.

“Mm.” Sherlock moved with him, beginning to faintly gasp with each push, but only barely, other than that he didn’t make much sound, just enjoyed the build up they had silently agreed on, the rhythm they had set, the give and take they had established. “ _Good_.”

“Yeah?” John asked, pressing his feet down into the mattress and changing the angle of his pelvis to thrust up, looking for that special spot inside Sherlock. One that would make him see stars. He needed it to be more than just good.

He was slowly losing himself to the need to please his partner, because Sherlock had been right, of course, about him enjoying the fact he was the source of pleasure for his lovers. John got off on it, on pleasing his sexual partner, of taking control from them, making them lose themselves, and so he moved his hands to Sherlock's hips, holding him securely as he thrust up, harder and faster, setting a now brutal rhythm.

“ _Good_? Hm?”

With a hitching breath, Sherlock gripped harder at the headboard and nodded, eyes clenching with a sudden grimace of pleasure, “ _Yes_ ,” he grunted, rocking harder in response, taking the new angle and speed in his stride, penis smearing up the skin of John’s abdomen as he tipped his waist, arched his back, and groaned. After another few thrusts, Sherlock tensed his legs and shifted, bouncing up, aided by John’s momentum, and fucked himself down with more zest, becoming more invested and delighted by the change. “Yes... _yes_ …”

John heard himself growl in reply, hand moving on it’s own to unexpectedly grab at Sherlock's hair and pull him down for an unplanned and blazingly hot kiss. Their teeth clacked and John could have sworn he tasted blood, yet he pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth again and again, tasting him, sharing his air. It felt like things had started properly now and he wasn’t just something for Sherlock to use, wasn’t just a convenient way to scratch an itch, so he kept kissing him and tugging on Sherlock's hair as they fucked hard, his other hand scratching along the pale, sweat-slicked spine to mark him.

Moaning huskily, Sherlock, who was submitting to John’s mouth and hands without complaint, bucked and writhed, grinding down with a loud gasping exclamation, “ _Oh_! Ah, _there_! There...yes... _yes_ , _there_ …” he rambled against John’s lips in lustful abandon and John thrust harder and faster in response, attempting to prolong and increase Sherlock’s pleasure. He wasn't yet ready to come himself, happy to extend their situation for as long as he could.

Slowly, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's throat in spontaneous zeal, John gave a gentle squeeze whilst tugging on Sherlock's curls, testing the waters, “You like this, don’t you?” he asked, squeezing a little harder, “knowing that _I_ have control?”

Sherlock’s cock dribbled wetly and he wheezed, brow furrowed, pulse racing, “You think _I’m_ submissive?” he panted, words broken up with sharp chokes and gasps as they moved together.

“I think you are with _me_ ,” John answered, giving a harsh jab up to catch Sherlock's prostate and sending the man lurching with a shudder, “You're strong and have good martial arts skills, but I'm stronger and army trained, and you know that. You _like_ that,” he said as he moved, hitting up inside Sherlock without pause for several more thrusts until he gave into a roaring urge and twisted away, pulling out to throw and manhandle Sherlock to his front against the bed. Lifting Sherlock's hips, John reached underneath to make sure he wasn't squashing Sherlock's steadily leaking penis, before rocking into him again, bending Sherlock’s back so he could lean down to whisper at his ear. “This _really_ wasn't a good idea, because I won't want to stop… I'll want to _fuck you_ every way I can. I want you on your knees and on your back. I want you riding me and up against the wall. I want to coat you in my come and _own_ you...” He ground his hips into Sherlock's buttocks as he spoke, pressing in deeper and harder, not sure where it was all coming from, but letting it out. Letting it free. He might as well, after all.

Flailing, Sherlock scrambled to clutch hold of something, gathering and crumpling and digging at the pillows with a bodily shudder, a whimpering groan, his toes curling, “ _Oh_. - Get...get on with it then,” he uttered in a dazed whisper, skin redder and hotter than ever, and the speckling of sweat across his brow accumulating to drip wonky, shimmering lines down his temples. He let out a croaky grunt and a high-pitched cry when John nudged, pushed, and dragged the blunt end of his cock against Sherlock’s prostate again and again and again. “Ah! _Oh God_ …”

Pushing down on Sherlock's hips to bend Sherlock further, John continued to ram inside, reaching to grab a handful of his hair and pull so his spine was arched as much as he was able, “If you come, I'll keep going,” John warned, “I'm going to _fuck you_ until you're _dry_.”

Sherlock clamped down with a shudder of hot muscle in reply, “ _Yes_ ,” he wheezed, open mouthed and wanton, buttocks bouncing off John’s pelvis with an attractive, plump jiggle. “Do it!”

“ _Fuck_ ,” John hissed, biting his tongue as he moved harder, sweat pouring from the both of them and saturating the covers below. “Going to take you _bare_ next time… and come inside you… so you feel me _dripping_ out.”

Reaching back, Sherlock took a firm bruising hold of John’s thigh muscle, slamming himself back with a gusty, hissing, exhale, “ _Faster_ ,” he told him, words, exclamations and air being forced out of him as John responded in kind. “Faster...John, just... _do it faster_...short... _short and fast_ , until I... _scream_ …”

“Christ, _y_ _es_ ,” John groaned, hand slipping on the slick perspiration across Sherlock's back as he scraped through it, scratching him as he fucked into him, feeling himself getting closer to orgasm with every short, brutal thrust. He made sure to keep his hips angled repeatedly hit Sherlock's prostate, sure he was already balancing on the border of oversensitivity with each pounded buck. Just a little more. Just a bit longer.

Unable to catch his breath, Sherlock flinched and struggled aimlessly for a moment, eyes rolling up, limbs and body shaking. John could feel the tension in him as his climax approached, as his muscles shuddered from strain, as he fought between wanting to get away and pushing close into it. The veins in his neck and temples had bulged, each echoing slap of skin now making Sherlock growl like an animal. It was gorgeous. Wholly all-consuming. John wanted more. Hated how easy it had been to lose himself in it all, to get caught, to allow their friendship to be ruined by this.

“Oh _fuck_!” Sherlock kicked out one leg and almost collapsed as John hit his prostate in quick succession, sending Sherlock wildly rutting, a scream scraping up his throat as he went suddenly taut and convulsed bodily, ferociously, then spilled up the bed in long, hard, splattering pulses.

“ _Yes,_ ” John exhaled through gritted teeth, mindlessly crazy with fanatical yearning, blinded and trapped in desire as he grabbed Sherlock's hip and swung him over onto his back. The detective seemed to be in a stupor, quivering and covering his stomach in the last few spurts of semen, but John couldn't halt himself, couldn’t pause, couldn’t stop, not now. He bent and pushed Sherlock's legs back, hands tucking roughly behind his knees, and folded him almost in half to fuck harshly into his exhausted body. “Again. I want _more_.”

Cringing, gaze unable to focus, Sherlock keened highly, throwing his head back and clawing at John’s shoulders, “ _Ah_! God... _John_ …” he slurred between loud, sharp gasps, breath knocked from him with every snap of John’s working body.

“You _wanted_ this. You said you wanted _raw_ , _unbridled_ , _sweaty_ , _hard_ , _exhilarating_ _sex_...” John said, each word punctuated with a hard slam of motion. Noticing that Sherlock's cock was still hard, he let go of one leg and reached down to wrap his hand around the slick wet skin, pumping in time with his thrusts, sweeping of his thumb across the weeping head. “So you're getting _it_!”

Coughing up a laugh, Sherlock gave John’s face a playful slap and then cupped his nape to yank him closer, “ _Give it_... to me...then, doctor...”

John bent Sherlock more, surprised at how flexible and lithe Sherlock truly was, and stretched for a fiery kiss, “I'm... getting close. - Come on, I want to see you come again,” he groaned, grabbing Sherlock's hair once more, savagely hard.

Gritting his teeth in a pleased smirk, clearly enjoying the treatment, Sherlock moaned and grabbed for John’s hand, taking it off his penis to slide up his come streaked chest, where his nipples were tightly pebbled, surrounded by a blotchy flush of arousal, “Pinch…” he mewled, arching and shivering when John hit his prostate again, sending a small spurt of liquid along his juddering abdomen. “Rub...lick... _suck_ …”

“Bossy bastard...” John huffed, but immediately set his attentions on the new target, biting down hard enough on Sherlock's right nipple to make the man shout and then laving over it with his tongue to take away most of the sting before he sucked, licked and swapped to the other. His own orgasm was close, he could feel it building in his lower spine.

“ _Don’t bite_!” Sherlock reprimanded with his eyes clenched shut, giving John a soft swat even as he began groaning with increasing volume, his muscles clamping down, twitching and then, surprisingly, going into a hard, overwhelming spasm.

“ _Shit_!” John cried out, slamming hard and keeping his pelvis pressed against Sherlock as he felt the tremors and clenching of Sherlock around his shaft. It was too much, too pleasurable and John barked in anguished delight as he pulled out, grabbing for the condom with his shaking hands to take himself in hand. 

It took no more than half a dozen strokes before John groaned loudly, hips shivering as he aimed for Sherlock's softening cock and came hard across it, combining his semen with Sherlock's on the younger man's chest and stomach, “ _Fucking fuck_! Jesus,” he muttered as he coaxed out the last drops, balancing with a wobble on his knees.

“My sentiments _exactly_ ,” Sherlock whispered, sounding utterly wrecked, voice ragged, breathing close to hyperventilation, and pulse visible in his throat. He threw his arms up over his head and stayed there, unmoving, as he came down from his pleasured high.

John took the moment to carefully slump to one side, falling onto his back next to him, attempting to calm his own breathing, cock leaking against his stomach as he wiped the sweat from his face, adding it to the collection of fluids on the duvet cover, “You okay?”

Pushing a hand to John’s face, Sherlock made a long noise of complaint, “ _Don’t_ do that,” he mumbled.

“Just making sure you don't have a torn arsehole or internal bleeding,” John grinned, nudging him, “I wasn't going to make you talk about your ‘ _feelings_.’”

“There’s no need to ask. You’ll be the first to know if anything was torn,” Sherlock sighed, coughing to clear his scratchy vocalisation to no avail. He gave John a sideways glance, eyebrow arching, and waved his hand toward the door. “You can leave now, thank you.”

“Wha—Give me a moment, you rude arse.”

Sherlock shot him a pouting scowl, “I said ‘ _thank you_ ,’ isn’t that polite?--”

“Just give me a bit of time to get my breath back and recharge,” John grumbled, though he heaved himself up a minute later at Sherlock’s snooty, snubbing huff and bent to retrieve his underwear. He dressed quickly but hesitated just as he was about to leave the room, eyeing the messy streaks that coated Sherlock’s torso. “Do...do you want a flannel or something before I go?”

“Hm? Oh, no, it’s fine. I have wipes,” Sherlock replied, reaching for his bedside drawers to pull them out with a wave. He shifted then, flexing his toes, wiggling his hips, and uttering a grunting moan as he set to work cleaning himself up. Clearly John had been more than dismissed now.

“Right, well… cheers for that,” John snorted, giving an awkwardly jaunty wave. He returned to the living room and sat down, wondering what on earth had just happened and how he could possibly fix it.


	2. Chapter 2

Months. It had been months since John and Sherlock had gone crazy, had lost their damn minds and slept together. Months since John had tried to explain it to himself, tried to bring it up to Sherlock, tried to wonder what he felt now, what it meant for them now. Nothing had changed yet everything had, how could it not have changed? John knew what Sherlock looked like naked and writhing and gasping and flushed with arousal. They were still friends somehow, despite Sherlock’s rudeness and the numerous of times he played ignorant and annoyed, rolling his eyes, waving a theatrical hand, and distancing himself from it all with cases, with experiments, though still there was a change, a tension between them. John wished he’d done better, been better, and denied their odd hookup. Their one-night stand.

With a heavy sigh, John shook his head, scattering his vexing thoughts, and juggled the pinching bags of shopping into his right hand as he opened the door, forcing a smile when Mrs Hudson caught his eye from the entranceway, where she was polishing, cleaning, and disinfecting all the surfaces. The smell of earth, of fresh manure, from a short case last week had long gone, but still she kept scrubbing. John wondered if she’d washed the ceiling again.

“More shopping?” she chirped, shooting him a beaming grin as she swiped at a shelf. “Careful how you go, I just mopped the floor.”

Nodding at her in greeting, John wiped off his shoes and trudged up the stairs, trying not to remember how Mrs Hudson had reacted to what he and Sherlock had done. She’d been all smiles, of course. Cooing and giggling and winking and elbow nudging. It had taken a lot to steer her away from it, John hadn’t felt like trying to explain it to her, not when he didn’t even know what it had been or why he had let it happen. He was surprised Sherlock hadn’t said anything, hadn’t exploded in anger at her, then again he supposed it was just like him to wallow in misinterpreted situations.

John scowled, cursing Sherlock’s irritating behaviours, and turned on the landing to enter in through the kitchen, barely setting more than a foot into the room before Sherlock sprang from nowhere and crowded in against him, breathing hotly against the back of his neck, “Busy?” he rumbled with a dark, promising voice.

“ _Jesus_!” Feeling his heart rate begin to skyrocket, John elbowed him back and continued on, hauling the bags up onto the counter-top to put everything away. Not giving much of a reaction to Sherlock as he did so. What was he up to? “Depends what you're after?” He sounded flirtatious, why did he sound so flirtatious? He shouldn’t flirt with Sherlock.

“You know what I’m after,” Sherlock drawled in reply, strolling after him and leaning up against the kitchen table, hitching his hip there and lifting his eyebrows questioningly. His head tilted to one side when John returned his gaze. “ _Well_?”

“...Are you serious? After _all this_? - It's been at least two months, Sherlock,” John said, eyeing him up appreciatively. Sherlock was purposefully angled and knowingly inviting, how could he not look? He always looked. What was this? What was he doing? John knew he shouldn’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing he’d got his attention in some way. Now was the time to force a discussion, to reject him, not to encourage him. “Will it always be such a gap between bouts?-- _Are_ there bouts? When we...the first time, was that an arrangement, an agreement, to more? What _are_ we?”

“It’s been four months actually, and yes there will be gaps, I told you as such. I _can_ and do go without, for an _exceedingly_ long time. I ignore it. Force my mind, my body, onto other things,” Sherlock told him with a gesture of his hand, obviously terribly frustrated to repeat himself as he motioned to the living room, to his laptop, and to the outside world in vague emphasis. “However, if anything, it’s been _less_ time than I usually take before I give in again. I suppose you could say that I’m... _indulging_ now that I have such an available and _interested_ candidate.” He pointed at John with a click of his tongue and a wink, shooting a smirk that made John’s skin prickle with heat.

“You’re such a twat,” John snorted with a pathetically stifled laugh, bending to put the frozen peas in the freezer. This was madder than the first time. What was he agreeing to now? He should reject him, deny him, he should lecture him. Instead, John clenched his teeth, shifted his stance, thought of how good Sherlock looked, sounded and felt, and glanced at his watch in an act of casual indifference. He then hummed and shrugged, hating himself, hating Sherlock. “Yeah, go on then. - But, if we’re _really_ going to do this, if we’re really going to _commit_ to this...ridiculousness, then I want to enjoy myself just as much as you. I want a blowy first. It's been ages since I've had one and if you want to use my dick, I want to use your mouth.”

Sherlock huffed in faint amusement, “Fellatio is so _excruciatingly_ pedestrian,” he said dismissively with a twitch of his mouth, yet his eyes dropped down for a moment, flitting across John’s crotch as if in consideration. He looked far too enticing. Why did he have to still find the bastard sexually pleasing?

John exhaled, too pitiably desperate to say no, and tried not to interpret what that meant for him, for them, nor what it was he felt, pushing all common sense to one side to gesture with his thumb, “Your room or mine?”

“Yours. Mrs Hudson was quite scandalised by the noise when we used mine. As you well know,” Sherlock told him and pushed off from the table with a showy flexible undulation, swaggering past to head for the bathroom, giving John’s backside a surprising squeezing cup as he went by. It shot hot fire through John’s veins, making him dizzy with abrupt want. “I’ll meet you up there.”

John blinked widely after him, trying to get his suddenly excited breathing under control, and finished putting everything away, robotic and methodic, mind running on pure arousal. Once again he was doing something stupid, something that could end badly, something that was just purely, utterly bad. So bad. So stupid. Yet he didn’t stop it, didn’t even stop himself from grabbing a bottle of water and heading towards the stairs. 

Already working on the buttons of his shirt as he went, John was topless by the time he stepped into his room, “You're putting a condom on today,” John insisted, calling down the stairs when he heard that bathroom door open. He fumbled out of his trousers and underwear in one fell swoop, chucking them towards one of his chest of drawers. “I've just cleaned my bedding--” It was only when Sherlock laughed up at him that he realised Mrs Hudson could probably hear everything he was shouting and quickly snapped his mouth closed with a grimace, thumping the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Such an _idiot_...might as well offer her a bloody ringside seat!”

Sherlock took several minutes to finally appear and when he did, he was draped in his dressing gown, completely naked beneath it, carrying his lube bottle, which he set down next to John’s bedside lamp, “Remember to keep yours on today then,” he said conversationally, taking a condom packet from his dressing gown pocket before he shrugged the thing off, closed the door behind him with his bare foot and hung then gown from the door handle. “It was _y_ _ou_ who made the most mess before.”

“You'd already covered the bed, and yourself, so it seemed pointless not to add mine,” John retorted with a quirking smirk, trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face as he sat down to pull off his socks, cock already laying heavy and thick between his thighs. Just the mere sight of Sherlock’s body now set him off, whether it be clothed or wrapped in bedsheets. He was in trouble.

“I would have missed my poor bed and covered you if you hadn’t moved me,” Sherlock told him, trailing a few deft long fingers down his flat pelvis like the tempter he was. He stood there a moment, observing, staring as John flexed his freed toes into the rug at the side of the bed, and then Sherlock walked over to unexpectedly kneel at John’s feet, putting his condom packet on the bed beside John’s thigh. “Put a condom on. - Your own. Not mine. You have some in your top drawer. More than a handful probably knowing you and your misplaced optimism.”

“Oooh you're _funny_ ,” John murmured sardonically, swatting Sherlock on the shoulder, finding the sight of Sherlock kneeling naked before him a terribly glorious view. He wished he’d been more interested in building his own mind palace, because he never wanted to forget this picture. Leaning sideways without taking his eyes from Sherlock’s upturned face, he pulled a condom from his drawer. “I suppose I should blow the dust off it first, eh?”

“Oh _definitely_ ,” Sherlock nodded with a twisting grin, folding his arms across John’s bare knees, stroking at the skin with the tips of his fingers. “Careful a moth doesn’t flutter out too.”

“I hate you,” John dead-panned, covering his cock with one hand when Sherlock’s eyes seductively lowered to it, one of his eyebrows arching smugly at the state of his evident desire. Idly caressing himself, John shot Sherlock’s arrogant face a weak glare and swatted the packet onto one of his sharp cheekbones. “ _This_ is why I wanted a blowjob. At least it would keep your mouth busy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a fluttering gesture of a hand, “Yes, yes - John, I’m on my _knees_ , stop whining,” he drawled, resting his chin on one forearm. “I’m _giving you_ what you want just as soon as you put the condom on.”

“Right. Yes... good lad,” John mumbled, frowning at his own words and pinching his mouth at Sherlock’s haughtily inquisitive brow rise. Trying not to think of how he kept putting his foot in it, John began to roll the condom down over his shaft, checking it was on properly before he leaned back on his elbows and signalled at Sherlock in what he hoped was a nonchalantly bored way. “Go on then.”

“May I? Gosh you’re just _too_ kind!” Sherlock gasped sarcastically, spreading John’s legs open by the knees to slide between them, taking him in hand. He glanced up licentiously as he made himself comfortable and pushed John’s latex covered glans against and along his hot tongue, lips stretching around John’s girth the more he pushed. It felt stupidly good, even with the barrier of the condom, and John let himself focus on it, to pretend he wasn’t being a giant idiot again. Sherlock sucked and swallowed, and hummed with a wince when he pulled back, trailing saliva with a wet smack and an extended, swirling tongue tip. “Never could get used to the taste...”

“You’re the one who elected to have me wear one while you do this,” John muttered, eyes widening as his left hand moved on his own accord to push through Sherlock's hair, fingers gliding through soft waves. Had he brushed through it before coming up? “Should really have checked we’re both clean, really. Before now, I mean. We were stupid not to. Not that I don’t trust you, of course, but it’s...always best to do it just to be on the safe side...”

“We’re fine, _doctor_ ,” Sherlock murmured, taking John’s length down his throat with a gulp and a grunting groan, cheeks flushing and eyes fluttering closed. He looked utterly obscene. Yet another sight John wished he could lock away within his own mind.

“ _God_ ,” John sighed, voice raspy and mouth spreading into a self-satisfied smile. “God, I've missed that.”

Setting a languid, teasing, drawn-out rhythm, Sherlock slipped one skilled hand to the base of John’s penis, cupped his balls with the other, and moved with experience, effortlessly reading John’s mind, his body, as he pleasured him. It was slow, almost meticulous, and it turned John on to no end. Sherlock was in no rush to get on to the main event and seemed quite happy to tuck himself into the cage of John’s tensing legs, blatantly enjoying having his mouth filled and throat stretched. John rolled his hips up, captivated by the visage, and thrust himself into the wet curve of Sherlock’s tongue and the addicting clench of his throat.

“...Your lips look lovely wrapped around a cock,” John groaned under his breath, opening his legs further so Sherlock had more room to work and pushing his curly fringe away from his face with a shaking sweep. They locked eyes and John felt his heart stutter for a moment. Why was that gaze so addicting? “What?”

With a purposeful increase in suction and a nonchalant hum, Sherlock pulled off, “I want a different position this time,” he said gruffly, leaning John’s cock against his warm cheek, nuzzling the spit-slicked line of him.

“Oh?” John breathed, letting his head fall back on his shoulders.

“Different pace too,” Sherlock added, licking a long, hard, hot path along John’s twitching length and slithering up John’s body to nose his way to one nipple, blowing out a quivering breath to bring it to a straining nub. “Not that the first time wasn’t _extraordinarily_ satisfactory, you understand--”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I know you hate repetition – We can do whatever you want, if it keeps you quiet,” John promised, lifting his head back up to, thoughtlessly, cup Sherlock's face and pull him in for a tender kiss. It shocked the both of them and John stared into Sherlock’s dilated pupils, swallowing hard. “Just...uh, just tell me how you want it.”

Sherlock bumped their noses together, a small, creasing frown rippling down his forehead and looked down at John’s mouth with an almost calculating gaze, then angled himself just enough for their lips to catch and connect once again, “Get in the centre of the bed,” he murmured, sliding off and standing back up, rubbing his reddening knees.

John, heart beating incessantly hard in his chest, shuffled into the middle as he’d been told, plumping the pillows aimlessly when he nudged into them, “Have you... prepared yet?”

“Yes,” Sherlock told him as he slowly walked around the bed at a predatory stalk, choosing a side to crawl on to and motioning at him bossily. John wondered if that was his preferred side and couldn’t help a small smile as Sherlock reached for the lube bottle to pour some onto his hand, reaching back for a moment, erection jumping. “Actually, it might be better if you sit up against the headboard a bit. I want to straddle you again, but I want us to be both sitting up together. - I’ve heard the position is called the ‘lotus position’ if the penetrating partner sits cross-legged, but it’s up to you whether you want to do that or not.”

“ _Oh_ , yeah, okay. I can do that,” John nodded, using his hands to push himself backward until his back was pressed to the cool, solid headboard. “Do you... want help with the, um, prep or want me to put the condom on you, perhaps?”

Sherlock snatched the wrapper up with an uninterested head shake, “No, I’ll do it. The less intimate touching from you at the beginning, the better,” he said, carefully biting it open and rolling it on, slicking John’s cock with lube with that clever, practised hand of his. He seemed calmer than the first time. Distracted almost. It brought some tension, though not as much as there could have been. With a silent exhale, John tilted his pelvis into Sherlock’s touch and let his head relax back, watching through his lashes when Sherlock straddled his legs, pressing them chest to chest. “Not as hard and fast as previously either, if you’d be so kind. Not to begin with at any rate.”

“Mm. Sure. Definitely not. I want to make it last a bit longer also, seeing as you're a bloody sex camel. Who knows when I'll next get the next opportunity,” John replied teasingly, putting a hand on Sherlock’s white hip and thumbing the skin there before stroking his fingers around to cup his buttock. He was smooth, skin exfoliated and soft. Was it done for him or was he naturally this flawless?

“Precisely,” Sherlock smirked, adding more lubricant to himself, to John, and then aligning them eagerly. Bending his head down, cheek inches from John’s, he pushed him in, sinking down, and took him with a roll and a rock of his hips, breath hot against John’s sensitive neck. “Although, that shouldn’t be too new for you...you’re always in that state of limbo, aren’t you John? Stuck waiting for the next gullible subject to come along and agree to let you in—”

“I’m _not_ thanking you for shagging me, Sherlock!” John griped, hissing at the heat as he slipped inch by inch within the gorgeous bastard’s body, sending sparks of liquid zeal up his spine and down his legs. He already wanted to take over, to push Sherlock down, bend him in half, and make him scream. “And anyway...if we go by your logic, _you’re_ the gullible subject that came along.”

“Mm-hm. You’re welcome,” Sherlock sassily, lips tantalisingly close to John’s pulse point.

“You’re a bastard,” he scoffed, a soft smile creeping across his face. Holding still once Sherlock settled atop him and he was fully sheathed inside him again, blanketed in heat and a tantalising tightness, he allowed Sherlock to get used to the position and turned to give him a sidelong glance. “You set the pace whenever you’re ready. I’ll follow you...as always.”

Humming the affirmative, Sherlock curled his arms around John’s neck, wiggling in bliss, and tipped his head back, exposing the long, beautiful arch of his throat, “Rules are the same as prior,” he whispered, curls slipping across his forehead. “Touch me anywhere you like, but leave my genitals alone in the beginning.”

“Now that I know you can orgasm hands-free, not sure I'll ever really _need_ to touch your dick,” John heard himself mumble, answering the call of Sherlock’s bared neck and leaning forward to kiss, lick and then gently suck on it, hands circling around to trail up and down the arc of his spine. He could smell Sherlock’s expensive cologne, could taste it on his tongue, and he wondered if it had been for his benefit, if Sherlock had applied it for this, for him. “That was, uh, incredibly... appealing, you know?”

“Was it?” Sherlock asked in a rumble, a blush rushing up under John’s roaming mouth at the praise and hands groping at his shoulders, giving a few shuddering breaths and a quiet, throaty moan when his fingers skimmed raised scar tissue. He seemed to enjoy the texture, following the twisted, wonky lines front and back with soothing, worshipping slides of his fingertips.

“Mm, very much so,” John breathed, pushing against him, into his throat and into his examining, reassuring fingers. The feel, the smell, the taste of him was filling every thought, every sense. Sherlock was the sun and John was the doomed Icarus. “I've never made a man come like that before. You must be very, _very_ sensitive— _Fuck_ , can I mark you?”

Scratching delightfully up John’s nape in instant response, Sherlock rocked onto him, rubbing his latex covered erection into John’s stomach and moaning in enthusiasm, “ _Yes_ ,” he agreed, canting his hips and dropping his head back further with a sharp intake of breath, clearly relishing the grinding position it put John’s cock in. “ _Anywhere_ you want...”

“Anywhere? Bit reckless that.” Reaching to cradle and tilt Sherlock's head to one side, John nosed down the long, smooth skin of Sherlock's neck, resting for a second at a freckle to adorn with kisses, before clamping his mouth down beneath it. Undeterred by the tang of cologne, John closed his eyes and sucked hard, sucked until Sherlock let out a breathy grunt and bucked. When he finally pulled off, John stroked the large, red bloom he’d left behind. “Mm... suits you...”

Snorting out a panting laugh, Sherlock peered at him from under expressively lifted brows, “Oh does it now?” he whispered, turning to nuzzle at John’s cheek as he started rutting back and forth with a fluid, limber, rolling undulation of his hips, working the muscles of his back and abdomen, and clamping his thighs. It was a show of power, of control, of arrogant pride, and a stroked ego, and John ate it up. “Best give me some more then if that’s the case...”

“I suppose so. Basically the unwritten law,” John chuckled, kissing, nipping and marking, working his way down. Decorating a prominent, pinked collarbone, a blotchy, heaving chest and a juddering, hot stomach. Soon, Sherlock was squirming and practically bruised all over, and John groaned with the permission to own, the pleasure of claiming the skin he’d admired, drunk with delight as he then secured his mouth around Sherlock's right nipple, lathering it until it pebbled and flushed. “No biting. I remembered.”

Dazed, Sherlock nodded, pushing into John’s attentions, “ _Good_ ,” he breathed, lips parted. “Thrust up into me a little more. Mark me as you take me.” Leaning his shoulders back to alter the angle of his grinding, torso stretched out in a column of rippling marked skin, Sherlock began clawing down John’s arms, losing himself in the increasing rhythm. “Push deep...gently... _tease_ me with it.”

“Only if you… beg...” John tried, eyeing Sherlock’s colouring face and trying to read his pleasure-crumpled expression while he stroked his hand up to wrap around his throat. He added a bit of pressure, as he had last time, and took an even breath. “Say _please_...”

“John, I’m really _not_ submissive--”

“ _Liar,_ ” John interrupted, digging in each of his fingers, making Sherlock gasp and swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing and blush deepening. “Now you have to say _pretty please_.”

“No,” Sherlock huffed, scowling petulantly, and tried to get what he wanted by moving and pushing, yet John held him steady and still, “ _John_!”

Lifting his eyebrows, hoping his voice remained level, John smiled, feeling suddenly arrogant and powerful, “Yes, Sherlock?”

“... _Please_ ,” he beseeched lowly, the flush on his cheeks, his neck, and over his chest, intensifying as he spoke. Even his cock jumped, smearing the inside of the condom with pre-ejaculate. “ _Pretty_ please.”

“You _really_ do like this, don’t you?” Rocking up into Sherlock's body, John grit his teeth with a moan, pushing his cock deeper and slightly faster, the change in Sherlock's body angle was doing wonderful things.

Everything was tensing and contracting and squeezing, and Sherlock's latex clad erection bounced against John’s body with each lazy grind and upwards thrust. He was losing himself more and more, just like before, letting what they were doing take over him, letting his baser instincts, his primal urges take over.

“You want this so badly. All the time, I bet. Just want me to order you, to take hold of your throat, to throw you up against whatever surface I want...” John murmured, moving his free hand to cup and roll Sherlock's bollocks, clenching Sherlock’s neck in time with his movements.

“Mm, _yes_ ,” Sherlock purred, clenching his eyes shut and twisting in a wanton writhe, changing the orientation of his bent legs to give more freedom, to go a bit faster, to bear down at a bounce as John flexed up. “ _Oh God_...yes, John...tug on my testicles—” He spluttered into a wonky, wide grin and swatted John's temple when he coughed out a laugh in response. “ _Shut up_. - You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake!”

“ _Oi_ , stop hitting me during sex! You might be into a bit of rough but I’d rather not get smacked,” John playfully snarled, letting his fingers slide further back, past Sherlock’s tensing scrotum, along his scorching hot perineum, to touch where he was stretched open. He could feel his coated cock move, slow and deep, and he focused on it for a moment, finding the sensation, the wet motion, highly bewitching. “Bad form, Holmes.”

“Says the man who snickered at me like an immature child,” Sherlock accused, patting John’s cheek in a light, frisky slap, then clutching his chin in a firm enclosure of long fingers to tip his head up and butt their mouths together. “Do you want me to be extra vulgar? Hm? I know _you_ like that.” Arching an eyebrow, he crinkled his nose in mischievous teasing, and then moved, changing the angle again, pressing his feet flat either side of John’s hips as he shifted his hands to brace himself on John’s shoulders. “Pull on my _balls_ , John. _Fuck_ me faster, John. Take me _apart_ , inch by inch, thrust by thrust – Give it to me _fast_ , but not hard. Make me _beg_ for it, _work_ for it. Plunge your _cock_ into me and make me _come_.” He gave John a provocative smile, biting down on his bottom lip for more lascivious flare, and began to lift and drop his hips with a rumbling and erotically drawn-out moan. “Better? _More_? Louder?”

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” John moaned, thumping his head back against the headboard as he kicked up a quicker pace, as requested. “Your voice… your voice is _pornographic_.” He took Sherlock's bollocks back into his hand and tugged gently, rubbing his thumb across the dividing seam. “It’s always _fucking pornographic_... whether your rattling off deductions or growling at the TV. I can’t stand it sometimes. I can’t _stand_ it!” Releasing Sherlock’s throat, John reached up, grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s curls and pulled him for stifling kiss with a groan, suckling that sinful bottom lip. He could scarcely concentrate on anything more than the taste of him, the passing of their tongues.

Sherlock hummed into it, “I can feel how much you like it,” he husked between the slick, smearing of their lips, sharing air, saliva, and then briefly catching John’s tongue between his teeth. “You get harder...hotter... _greedier_ …”

“That's because you're _fucking sexy_ ,” John groaned with a snarl of desire, stroking a pressured sweep from Sherlock’s scalp to his chest, taking one nipple in his fingers, touching his thumbnail against its peaked nub.

Sherlock gasped as they moved together quicker, their heated naked skin smacking nosily against one another, “O-oh _yes_ …”

Humming John nodded, stunned when Sherlock abruptly pushed two fingers into his mouth, hooking him closer for another blisteringly fervent kiss, “I...I could...I could suck you off, you know. I've not done it for a while, but I’d push your cock down my throat anyway and...and suck you, _choke_ on you, whilst I finger you open,” he heard himself ramble, turning his mouth against Sherlock’s damp digits as he trailed his finger up the large vein on Sherlock’s shaft, “Swallow you down...every...every _inch_ of you.”

“You’d have to ask very nicely,” Sherlock breathed, face blotchy as he squashed their noses together, breathing hot and rapid against John’s chin. “Very, _very_ nicely.”

“Oh I _would_ ,” John moaned, getting into the new fantasy as Sherlock trailed his fingers across John's lips as he spoke, “I know how to ask, how to make you _pliant_ , make you blush. I know what to say to charm you. - I’d tell you how _amazing_ you are, how much I wanted to taste you. To feel you against my tongue, to take you down and get you pulsing in my mouth...” Wrapping a hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, John toyed with the same throbbing vein, slowly sliding his fist up to stroke the frenulum under the condom, tickling it every so slightly before rolling his fist back down. “Without this barrier though...I want you without a condom. I want to have your bare cock sliding into my throat.”

Dipping his forehead into John’s with a trembling exhale, Sherlock tickled the pad of his index finger along John’s top lip, “How many fingers would you penetrate me with?” he asked with a shaking voice, bouncing and thrusting down on John’s length with more passion, more want, evidently getting carried away, getting overwhelmed. “Would you look...after you’ve stretched me wide, would you _look_ at me?”

“Hm. At first I’d go slowly with two, then when you're close to coming I’d go to three,” John whispered, blushing as he spoke, “and then when you were on the _very edge_ , right on the _crest_ of your orgasm, I’d slip a fourth in. Watch you _squirm_ on my thick fingers.” Looking up, he made sure to lock eye contact as they rocked together, faster and faster, already sweating so much that drops of perspiration shook like glistening beads from the tips of their noses. John clenched his toes tightly, feeling the coil of climax winding tighter. “And yes, I’d look...if you asked me _nicely_ – Would you want me to look? To see how puffy you are? How wide open you are for me? Perhaps I’ll use my tongue and... taste you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hissed, getting erratic now, rocking, grinding, and circling his hips with an ambitious motion, piercing himself down and twitching at the resulting prod of his prostate. “I _want_ that. Want you to soak me and lick at me, lap into me. To fuh- _fuck_ me with your tongue—Ah! I can’t take it any more… I _can’t_ … I need... _I need you_ to fuck into me quicker! Stroke my chest, my cock, and take my hips, my buttocks, into your hands and push _deep_ without pause…”

John groaned loudly, feeling the orgasm building in him at Sherlock pleads, and moved his hand from Sherlock’s throat to his hip, using the other to start a slow, teasing rhythm on his cock. He was on fire with lust. Incapable of really stopping himself now that it was something they both craved, both wanted, John bucked his hips up, thrusting into Sherlock faster. The sharper actions made the bed frame, the headboard, shake and bash against the wall, their moans increasing, the sound of slick skin against skin slapping audibly as they desperately tried to reach their peak. 

“Do you want me to keep stroking you?” John asked breathlessly, wiping Sherlock’s fringe back which had stuck to his forehead and temples with sweat. “Or do you want to come hands-free? I don't care either way but… I'm starting to get close and I want you to come with me if you can.”

Nodding, Sherlock tried to catch his breath to reply, letting out small moaning gasps of pleasure with each thrust of John’s hips, and scratched his shoulders, digging his fingers in, “ _Yes_. Keep touching me,” he breathed with a hitch and a grimace of delight, mouth falling open on a thick, coarse groan. His hair was a wild mess, his skin gleaming with perspiration, and he was shaking, muscles contracting uncontrollably.

“You're so _fucking gorgeous_ ,” John muttered, hand now picking up speed to match their thrusts, which were becoming slightly off rhythm as they moved more fiercely. “One day I'm going to fuck you _bare_. Let you feel me completely. Come inside you. - Then finger you afterwards, feeling it against my fingers and using it as lube. Drink you down as you come...”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and took a painful grasp of John’s hair, bumping their brows together, whimpering and grunting more regularly as they gathered momentum, “ _Ah_ _—_ John, _yes_ , yes, yes, _there_! Huh-harder!” he encouraged, stroking one unsteady hand down to palm one of John’s nipples, his vocalisations getting louder and more debauched, until he jerked, flung his head back and growled with his oncoming climax. “ _Yes_! God, _right there..._ make me...make me… _I’m_ \--” Stiffening with a loud shout, Sherlock bucked up with a juddering stomach, trembling thighs, and a tight convulsion, filling the condom with thick, scorching pulses.

“ _Fuck_!” John cried out through gritted teeth and then bullied his lips against Sherlock's as he too came hard, giving three hard thrusts before his fingers dug into Sherlock's hips and he choked out a deep, dark and sultry groan. Shivering with oversensitivity, John continued to thrust in ragged movements in an attempt to prolong the pleasure, and gave Sherlock’s cheek a clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. 

It took several moments for John to stop trembling and even longer for his fingers to relax their curled tight hold on Sherlock, who had slumped against him. He basked in the closeness, the warm, pleasing ache of used muscles and the smell of musk, of sex, and stroked the wet slope of Sherlock’s back before he gave him another inelegant peck and let his head fall back to the headboard with a clunk.

“That was... _very_ good,” he laughed.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed breathlessly, remaining slouched on John until his breathing had evened out, to which he straightened, pulled carefully off John’s cock, and knelt beside him, still quivering and twitching. “It’s a good thing I propositioned you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Just wish you did it more often,” John replied, eyeing his softening cock and the incredible amount of semen trapped in the condom. With a huff, he motioned to it lazily, grasping himself lightly. “Look at this! I could repopulate a small island with this!”

Sherlock gave a rasping laugh, blushing and preening, looking down at himself as he rubbed at, then removed the condom he had on, wiping the glistening, wet, sensitive head of his leaking penis, “I meant, it’s a good thing I propositioned you in the first place. You were against this, remember? Thought it would ruin us. All but told me off for even suggesting we have intercourse--”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had… _experiences_ ,” John said cryptically, trying not to think too hard on those memories, those upsets and heartbreaks. “Where this type of... arrangement didn't end well. - I don't want that to happen between us. You're not a terrible person and I quite like being your friend, so I’d really not want to, you know, to bugger that all up.” Tying off the condom and putting it in a tissue that he got from his bedside table, he took out a few more and handed them to Sherlock. “I still think it might happen, that it could, but um… you have a certain way with words.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock smiled, almost flirtatiously, gaze dark and heated, mouth curled in an incredibly alluring manner. “But this is different than anything else you’ve experienced.”

“That's... probably true,” John laughed, scratching softly at the hair leading from his bellybutton and then through his pubic hair, which was thick and tacky with sweat and lubricant. “Think I’ll go for a shower... wanna join me? - Save water and all that bollocks?”

Sherlock lifted a single eyebrow, “Sharing showers too?” he asked, wrapping up his used condom, eyes still on John. “Intercourse could ruin us, but not shared bathing?”

“Well, we’d be saving the polar bears,” John replied, half shrugging and looking away, not able to deal with Sherlock’s piercing stare now that he was sobering up from his pleasure intoxication. “Plus, if we're not going to have sex for another four months, I want to get my moneys worth today. - If you think you can go for another round, that is? In the shower or out of the shower. Can just be oral. You didn’t really give me much of a blowjob—”

“Can _you_ go for another?” Sherlock snorted, slipping off the bed to stretch out his legs, poking and stroking over the bruises John had left. “I know your refractory period. It’s not exactly—”

“Like yours is any different. - Look, I’d give it a go,” John cut in with a small scowl, reaching to poke down Sherlock's nipple and giving it a small twist as he climbed out of bed to stand beside him. He smelt good, tugging John a step closer, close enough for their naked skin to touch again. “The offer is there, anyway. Just make sure that if you want another round you bring the lube and more condoms.”

Sherlock let out a small scoff and twisted to face him, their softening genitals brushing delicately, “Or _you_ could take lube and condoms with you and hope, wish and pray I take up your offer,” he said lowly with an arrogant lift of his chin. The angle showed off the marks littered up his throat and John stared at them, reaching to trace the biggest, meanest of them.

“Seems a bit desperate,” John said quietly as Sherlock swayed toward him. Shooting him a smirk, he stepped back, determined not to let Sherlock dominate him in this and ran his hand down Sherlock's back, cupping his buttock, as he went for the door, the last drop of ejaculate dribbling from his softening cock down his leg.

“You _are_ desperate!” Sherlock called after him huffily.

John shook his head in amusement, dashed quickly down the stairs, through the chilly kitchen, and into the bathroom to turn on the shower as fast as he could. Waiting for the ancient pipes to warm up as he used the toilet, washed his hands and looked at his reflection with a sigh. Sherlock was right about one thing, he was indeed desperate. John had always had a high sex drive and waiting for months between sexual encounters wasn't that thrilling an idea. The idea of dating for such encounters was also quite a distasteful idea, more so now, because after all, why try to have sex with someone else when he was having perfect sex at home with someone he didn’t have to get to know and impress? He just wished he was having more of it.

When the room began to fog over, John blinked from his thoughts and stepped into the stream of water, sighing as the heat loosened his muscles, relaxing him and sluicing the lube and sweat from his skin and hair.

Every creak or tic of sound made him look to the door, had his heart hammering, expecting, hoping, to see the bright eyes and long body of Sherlock, yet each time garnered nothing but the raising steam. Sherlock didn’t turn up, didn’t even speak through to him with some witty, teasing, snide remark. The door remained shut throughout John’s shower and when he dried himself off, wrapped his body in his robe, and scrubbed his hair with a towel, it stayed as such, dashing his wants for more into the ether.

With a long exhale, John tried not to feel too disappointed, tried not to think about what it meant, what he was allowing Sherlock to do and have, and stepped out of the bathroom, thankful of the cool air which curled around him that sent goosebumps up and down his arms. He walked to the living room, sat on his chair and reached for his laptop, wondering, again, what had happened and why, and how it still may ruin them.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long, tiring, miserable day and John was feeling grimy and smelt fairly disgusting. Two people had vomited on his shoes, four cysts had exploded over his sleeves, and he’d fingered, pressed, and squeezed into an abundant amount of infected, repugnant orifices. Far too many in one day. Something he had made sure to mutter to Sarah on his way out, glaring in her direction as if it had been her. For all he knew it could have been, considering their sparse and tense communication since she’d offhandedly informed him of her so-called amazing luck since parting from him. It was a low blow, whether she had intended on it or not, and it had stung, had bruised him, had sliced deep and ripped at his already strained composure. Struck a very sore and vibrating nerve.

Luck might have been on her side, but it was not on his. He’d already stubbed his toe that morning, spilt his morning coffee, tore a hole in the pocket of his coat, tripped over a wonky paving stone, and dropped his phone hard enough to crack the screen. Not to mention his headache of a sibling, a dead frog in the stove, the broken Blue-ray player, and his virus-infected laptop. All in all, he had not been having a good day, week, month, which did nothing but worsen his already low and edgy mood. A mood he’d been in for well over two months now.

Heading straight for the bathroom, John slammed the door shut and shed his clothes, throwing them to litter the floor as he punched on the shower, barely waiting for it to warm before he stepped into the streaming water. It hurt, first with the frigid cold and then with the scorching heat, and he welcomed the distraction, gritting his teeth and turning his head upward into it, letting the hot water pelt across his face, down his chest, along his stomach and trail over his pelvis, cock jumping with a twinge.  
  
Sliding a hand down, John first cupped it protectively with a sigh and then wrapped his fist around the shaft to begin an idle stroke, rubbing the foreskin back and forth over the head as he blinked water from his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. He just wanted to feel something other than the swirling, churning aggravation that had grown in his gut now, wanted to enjoy something, to chase his temper with a blast of endorphins. Why was it that if something’s wrong or bad then everything else seemed to follow suit? It never rains but it pours, as they say. That or Sod’s law. Both.

John huffed, rolling his shoulders, clearing his mind, and took a deep breath, trying not to inhale water, focus zeroing in on the hardening twitch of his stirring penis, in anticipation. Surely it could only go well from here?

With a bang the bathroom door, which John barely locked any more, swung open, sending a waft of chilly air into John’s warm, watery cocoon and startling him into stillness, “Budge,” Sherlock told him without so much as a greeting, his tone of voice pitched low and suggestive.

“Hello to you too,” John replied bitterly, eyebrows lowering in disapproval even as he took a step aside within the spray of hot water. Sherlock hadn't so much as hinted at anything sexual for almost three months. Three months of nothing but his childish, snooty attitude and distant, condescending gazes, marooning John almost at the edge of reason and leaving with only his trusty left hand and the fleshlight hidden away in his cupboard. Sherlock hadn't seemed to be suffering any side effects himself, but then again, John shouldn’t be surprised by that any longer. Having to keep remembering that the irritating man had admitted to often pushing it to the back of his mind.

Knocking the door shut, Sherlock pressed a condom packet eagerly into John’s palm and shrugged off the dressing gown he had on, exposing the naked body that John now regularly and inappropriately found himself fantasying about, “I want it against the tiles,” he commanded, waving his bottle of lube, which by the look of it he’d restocked. “My front, not my back. I want you taking me from behind and pinning me into the wall.”

John considered arguing and rejecting him, turning him down and calling him desperate the way Sherlock had done to him. He thought about ending whatever it was they had, tearing up their non-existent agreement with a ragged sneer, throwing Sherlock out and finding someone, getting something, saner, safer, fairer. John started to turn, crumpling the packet tightly under his fingers, but upon being properly faced with Sherlock’s desirous eyes and highly receptive he couldn't. He wasn’t strong enough. Rational enough. He wanted to fuck Sherlock. He wanted to fuck him and had no will to go without the pleasure Sherlock gave him. He never could say no to him, could he?  
  
“Fine, come here,” John uttered, twisting away to open the condom, struggling pathetically with wet hands. They were using each other. It was convenience. That’s all it was. There was no fixing it, was there? Scowling down at the drain as he rolled the condom on as Sherlock stepped in beside him, John tried not to look into the jolt in his chest, to look into the first moment they’d both recklessly pushed their friendship to its death. “You'll need to keep it down, Mrs Hudson is home.”

“Yes, thank you for that, if you hadn’t have told me, I _never_ would have known,” Sherlock replied with thick sarcasm, moving under the shower head, curls flattening to his head with the rush of water, slinking and clinging to his neck in black, shining coils. He rubbed at himself, hand slipping over his already stiff and twitching penis, skin rapidly blossoming pink from the rising heat. He looked gorgeous. A tempting siren eager to tease and drown. “Anyway, what does it matter if she hears? She already—”

“Turn around then,” John interrupted, really not in the mood to handle Sherlock's sarcastic attitude or vipers tongue. “I assume you've prepared?”

Sherlock popped the cap of the lubricant bottle with a sprinkle of silky droplets, dotting both their cheeks, and squeezed a hefty amount onto his fingers, “Obviously. But there is always need for more – Here. Coat yourself,” he ordered as he reached back to stroke those slicked fingers between his buttocks, thrusting the bottle against John’s chest.

John bit the inside of his lip, stopping his angry retort in its tracks, and took the lubricant, covering his cock and giving it a few strokes to bring it to full hardness, “Don't know how long I'll last. I've been... frustrated,” John warned, careful to keep his voice neutral despite the need to snap and bite and spit in his turbulent, bubbling mood.

“Surely you have more control than that?” Sherlock complained with a grating scoff, squinting against the water to take in John’s body, his erection, and then the expression on his face. Cocking an eyebrow, Sherlock leaned close, blocking the water from John as he did so, and slotted the wet tip of his nose against John’s. “Do you not pride yourself on your apparent skills, on your finesse, on how well you can satisfy your sexual partner? - I want it unrestrained and drawn out. Can you not do that? Shall I go and find—”

“ _Be quiet_ ,” John said through gritted teeth, nudging him back with a not to gentle shoulder bump. “Just… shut up and bend over, and I'll see what I can do.”

Sherlock let out a huff, wet brow lifting with a condescension, “Take it out on me, if you like. I want it rough. Hard. Fervent,” he said hoarsely, turning to press his torso to the tiles in a blatant, really whorish, display of sinful desire. His sloping, flexing, muscle toned back shifted as he arched, lifted his hips, and bent his knees, removing his fingers after a shaking breath. “Same rules apply, however. Leave my genitals alone...”

Exhaling a grunt of acknowledgement, John added more lube to replace the stuff washed away and then lined up without preamble, slowly pushing his tip in, and working the rest of his shaft in with small increments. It was good, as it always was when he had sex after such a long time. Better still that it was with Sherlock, who felt, smelt and tasted better than any toe-curling dessert. The pleasure of being within him, surrounded by him, squeezed by him, immediately overwhelmed him, making his eyes flutter and his breath hitch, and he grabbed hold of Sherlock's hips to adjust.

Humming from his place leant on the wall, Sherlock shifted his stance, slipping briefly along the shower floor, “Slow and then fast,” he instructed, bending his knees further and taking hold of the curtain rail. “You may press me completely against the tiles. And up them. Repeatedly.”

“Mm-hm.” Holding back another rude response, John pulled out leisurely, enjoying the clamping friction, and closed his eyes as he pushed forward, beginning a drawn-out and gentle rhythm and moaning softly.

“...I don’t know why you’re in _such_ a sulk anyway,” Sherlock muttered after a minute of near silence, most of their vocalised exhalations drowned out by the water. Peering over his water dotted shoulder, he frowned petulantly, hands readjusting their grip. John hated how good he looked. Hated how he ignited both his arousal and his ire with one look.

John sighed harshly, fingernails biting into Sherlock's hipbones as he picked up the pace and angled his next thrust, “I've had a _rotten_ day, an _awful_ week, and a _terrible_ month, and your diva power-bottom _shit_ is not helping my temper. - Repeating the same things whenever _you_ choose to proposition me. Setting rules. Demanding action. Telling me how best to fuck—I _know_ how to shag, Sherlock!”

“Not how to shag _me_ , you don’t,” Sherlock retorted snidely, eyes clenching closed as he met John’s new thrusts, backside bouncing with a soaked slap against John’s pelvis. “I see no issue in setting parameters and reminding you of those parameters. I know you. Sometimes repetition is, unfortunately, needed. - And if no sexual partner has...luh-let you know...how th-they like it...then they...they...they were _definitely_ — _Ah_! God…”

“ _Yes_. You see? I _know_ how to shag you, Sherlock,” John growled, running a hand up from Sherlock's waist to his nipples, pinching and rolling them. It made Sherlock squirm and groan appreciatively, prompting John to cup his buzzing throat and urge it into an arch. His wet hair shaking and shimmering. “I know how you like it now. What you want. - Slow then fast, play with your chest, find your prostate, bite your neck, squeeze your throat, pin you down, stroke your cock and listen to you _scream_.” With his other hand, John pushed aside one pert, flushed buttock, spreading Sherlock open an inch wider, and watched his cock pushing in and dragging out, watched as the spray of the water tickled and drenched their connection, a gentle tantalising sensation that only increased the pleasure of their meeting. “Why else would you come back to me? _Hm_? Why else would you bother if I didn’t know how to _fuck_ you? You could have anyone and you could end this... _thing_ between us...yet here you.”

“Why would I go anywhere else with you so close, so amenable?” Sherlock mumbled voice muffled against the tiles as he shuddered, the pale white of his back becoming a mottled pink. John scowled through his lashes at it, following its splotched, haphazard pattern to Sherlock’s reddened nape and let his hand release his buttock and instead collide with it sharply. It shocked Sherlock into a jolting buck, feet skidding on the wet floor and muscles tensing, and John thrust into the movement hard enough that Sherlock moaned with an open mouth as he turned to press his cheek to the shower wall, brow furrowed in obvious pleasure. Every stroke, tug, press and circle John gave his nipples made his insides clench down around John firmly. “Grind into me…”

John stepped closer, pushing on Sherlock's lower back and grinding down with his pelvis, rocking and groaning with pleasure, “Like that?”

“ _Yes_!” Sherlock choked on a grunting gasp, keening and nodding, “yes, just like that.” He rutted back eagerly, legs already starting to shake, and John clawed marks into the bow of Sherlock’s spine, leaving his straining nipples alone to stroke back and take hold of the glossy, heavily thick curls of his hair with a twisting wrench.

John could feel his orgasm already building as he gave in to his urges, into the melting-hot lick of exasperation, threatening to erupt at any moment but he battled it down, pushing on and snapping his hips faster. He was spiralling and rolling between the line of pleasure and anger, between wanting to please Sherlock and punish him, and he panted, blowing water from his lips, from the divot of his philtrum, leaning into every action with more and more strength. The noise of the shower was doing nothing to drown out Sherlock's increasingly wanton cries now and John groaned low in his throat in reply, gripping at the shower floor as his arousal steadily built up and up, and Sherlock scrambled for a better grasp.

“ _John_ … John, mark me,” Sherlock wheezed, scarcely able to take a breath before he let it out as a scream of pure delight when John pushed him bodily against the cold wall. It did wonders for John’s ego and stretched muscles he’d not used for months, burning within him with superior satisfaction. “ _Y_ _es_ , harder...faster... _come on_. - John, fuck me. _Fuck me_...fuck…fuh—”

John barely let Sherlock get midway through before he was clamping his teeth into his shoulder, sucking hard and marking the pristine skin. He knew he had probably bitten too deep, too quickly, but he was too aroused and riled up to care, hips now thrusting so hard that he was rocking up on his feet, slipping, “ _Close_...” John warned in a garble, tasting blood and pulling back from Sherlock's abused skin, resting his forehead between sharp shoulder blades. “Sherlock… _fuck_ , I'm close. I'm g'na come--”

“ _Harder_ then,” Sherlock panted, breath knocked out of him as John thumped and smacked him into the tiles in a frenzy, driving against Sherlock’s lithely arched hips and hammering into him with increasing speed. Sherlock’s backside was pinked from the brutal repeated thwack of his body and once John had dropped his gaze to it, he was incapable of drawing them away. “Grind up...up into...into me--” Cutting himself off with a tensing shudder, Sherlock stopped breathing for a few thrusts and then went up on his toes a little, almost sliding off John completely before he writhed with an echoing bellow, frantic about his approaching climax.

John shouted in response, yanking at Sherlock's hair and dragging his head back, exposing his neck that he bit down on, muffling his next cry of pleasure as he came hard, pulsing into the condom between them, “Fucking hell!” he gasped as it went on and on and on, his hips continuously moving, grinding into Sherlock, desperately trying to get him off too.

It only took three pushing ruts and he was convulsing and tightening around John in orgasm, “ _Oh_...John...” he breathed, trembling violently.

Wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist to keep him steady, worried that Sherlock might topple over the side of the bath, John held on and reached out to stabilise the both of them on the curtain rail, then the wall when that creaked and rattled. His own legs were wobbling quite dramatically as well, most of his energy spent, sapped, and his frustration fading into the buzzing static of the afterglow. The heat of the moment, of his rage, his arousal, was distancing from him now, leaving him chilled, weak, and depressed in its wake. John couldn’t choose which was worse and he pushed his head onto Sherlock's spine, catching his breath and focusing instead on the sweetly hot patter of water against his neck and back. He felt ashamed, guilty, and not at all happier with the situation.

“Feel better now?” Sherlock husked, his voice giving out halfway through, oblivious for once, yet somehow able to swat at John’s sore spot all the same. “Got it out of your system?”

“Mm,” John hummed non-committally, eventually straightening up and withdrawing his cock when some lingering strength had returned to the both of them. Moving from Sherlock, leaving him propped up against the wall, he tied off the condom quietly, putting it on the side, and picked up his shower gel. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Just wanted to wash and slouch in front of the TV.

Sherlock shuffled around and the cocky smile that was on his face faltered as their gazes snagged, “You haven’t. You’re _still_ irritable,” he stated with a high level of grumpy vexation, taking hold of curtain rail he stretched and flexed his legs scowling, water washing away the pink flush, the streaks of come, and the scent of musk. “ _Why_?”

Blinking at Sherlock, John squeezed some shower gel into his hand and set about washing his torso, “Because I _hate_ this. It’s stupid. We’re stupid. I can’t deal with it. Because _this_ \--” he gestured between them, flicking white froth across Sherlock’s collarbones, “--is all well and good, I like it, _when_ it happens, but it’s very one-sided. - It's when _you_ want sex, where _you_ want it and at what speed and position is good for _you_. You either seduce me, coerce me, or order me, and if I offer or hint at _maybe_ doing more than one fuck every few months, you just scoff at me.”

“You—”  
  
“And that works sometimes, I all but agreed to it by letting you have your way, by going along with it, but have you ever maybe considered that I’d like to pick the time and the position? I thought this was going to be a friends with benefits partnership, not a ‘let’s use John as a human sex toy that I can demand access to, use and then leave.’ I guess I just wanted and expected…. _m_ _ore_ ,” he murmured with a loose shrug, dropping his head to his chest to hide from Sherlock’s piercing eyes and to run a hand around his neck.

“...I see,” Sherlock muttered. “I don’t know what gave you the impression that there was going to be anything further to _this_. I told you _exactly_ what I felt, what I go through, and what I wanted, and you agreed, not once, but _twice_. - Which, might I just say, is _entirely_ your choice. You’re a big boy. You can and have said no to me. I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He narrowed his eyes and then waved a dismissive hand, spraying water over John’s stomach. Sherlock was getting curt and distant and arrogant, and John clenched his teeth together roughly as he watched the transformation from a languid, blushing, tempting siren to a calculating, aloof, cold shark. “You’re in a _very_ sour mood. That’s all this is. You were fine before—And what is wrong with telling you when I’m interested or ready for sex? Isn’t it good that I let you know? _Hm_? It’s better than the alternative, is it not? Better than your past girlfriends, who by the way, seem to be in charge of when and where and what position as well. Am I _wrong_? They have _so much_ power over you because there is a very slight chance they’ll open their legs. - And, of course, they often lied. They’d fake orgasms. They’d fake headaches. They’d smile and bat their eyes to get their way spewing pathetically obvious lines at you that, somehow just don’t register. And if they do, if you know what they’re doing, you let them get away with it. _Time and time again._ ”

“ _Enough_! I'm not arguing with you,” John replied sharply, continuing to wash with more aggression and irritation. “All I'm saying is that it seems very one-sided and I would like to be more involved in this massive leap in our relationship. It's not a criticism. Not...not exactly. I just need you to understand that it should be fair. There needs to be a give and take.” He sighed heavily and lifted his eyes, forcing a tight, tense smile, trying not to cock and grind his jaw in annoyance. “Just...forget it. It's fine, you're right, it's probably just all down to my sour mood.”

“Not a criticism,” Sherlock mockingly scoffed, pushing back his wet hair, snatching up his lube bottle, and stepping out, “of course it is—Why do you _always_ make things complicated? It’s just sex.”

“Yeah, well, sex _is_ complicated!”

“Not for me,” Sherlock intoned, dripping wet and glaring, still managing to look rather intimidating and reserved despite his nudity. “But very well. We can stop. It’s fine. No skin off my nose, as they say. Go back to your dating and your _women_.”

John felt a deep, gut-wrenching jolt of both anger and sadness at the thought, “No, that’s not what I—Look, I'm happy to keep doing it, I only wish that sometimes you'd think about someone other than yourself. - I'm not expecting roses and poetry, I just want there to be some sort of equity between us.”

“I let you orgasm, don’t I?” Sherlock retorted harshly, looking down at John as he did so. “I don’t have to. Just like you don’t have to accept me. - I want intercourse, I go to you and offer it, you accept, we both get satisfied by the deed. The only big issue, for you, is the time in-between, the wait,  in fact I make it abundantly clear that when I am not interested, then I am not interested, there is no sugar coating.” With an animated gesture at the bathroom window, raining water on the rest of the room, up the glass, Sherlock huffed. “Why don’t you just go and appease this nagging side of you? No one is stopping you from finding someone else for those moments. You can go out and essentially do what I’ve done all these years, suggest sex to someone open to it.”

John lifted his brow, chest heavy, “You wouldn’t care if I went and found someone else? Brought them back here, purely to fuck them?”

“No,” Sherlock replied with a casual shrug, eyes narrowed. “If it is not a distracting, unneeded, clinging romantic liaison, then it does not affect me. Affect our work.”

John turned away and washed his hair, mind racing, thinking it over even as something fluttered in his gut and choked his lungs. He could do that. He could find someone else in the dry spell. Surely there were plenty of women out there who were interested in short term, none romantic hook-ups? There had to be a website or a specific club he could find and use.

“All right. Fine. Okay,” John nodded, rinsing the suds from his hair and hairline. “We'll keep doing this and I'll also find someone else who is interested in no-strings sex, so in the days you're being a complete cold twat, I can go to a warm one.”

Sherlock glowered petulantly with a deep sigh, “John—”  
  
“It’s settled,” John cut in, feeling bolstered by the response and the pinching expression Sherlock was rather unsuccessfully trying to stifle. “Let me know when you next want to fuck then.”

Sherlock’s glower deepened, brow furrowed, the bridge of his nose creased for a moment but then beamed, head tilting, “ _Good_. I will,” he answered, turning to pat himself dry, take down his dressing gown and swagger from the room, swirling the steam behind him. “Enjoy the rest of your shower.”


	4. Chapter 4

Her name was Emma, a thirty-one-year-old dentist who had just come out of a long term relationship and was looking for a rebound without the strings, which was fine with John. More than fine actually, considering his situation.

It had been an interesting first meeting, John bumping into her at a bar when he was out with Stamford; they had talked, had danced, had kissed, exchanged numbers and then had spent the following two days texting one another. Texting rather suggestive and flirtatious messages more than anything else. During them, especially within the start of their communication, John had reassured her many times amongst their flirting conversations that he wasn't looking for anything further than sex, than a casual sexually intimate liaison, possibly a friendship and their talking turned quickly into planning, into meeting, and soon they had arranged to meet up for a drink at the same bar.

One drink had then led to two, and suddenly John was snogging her in the back of a cab as they raced to Baker Street, her hand crawling up his thigh and their legs tangled together, one of her feet losing its shoe to rub John’s covered ankle. It was planned, it was all part of the plan, between him and her, and between him and Sherlock. Sherlock had, once again, gone back to being apathetic to sex, lost in his own world, his own head, and had yet to even comment on John’s new female friend. John wasn’t sure if he found that as great as he might have once done.

The door to the flat swung open after a dozen or so moments of fumbling and as John stepped through, peeking his head around the corner to ensure Mrs Hudson wasn't lurking around, he ushered Emma in with a hush and a wink, happy that the coast was clear. John then offered his hand, grinning at her as he closed the door behind them, and signalled toward the stairs, leading her up. 

Once at the top of the seventeen steps, thankfully only tipsy enough between them to stumble once, John leaned into the open doorway of the living room and looked around, spotting Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, either asleep in the darkness or deep within his mind palace, John wasn’t sure which. He felt both pleased and disappointed at the circumstance; Pleased that Sherlock wouldn't deduce poor Emma and send her fleeing, but also disappointed that he didn't get to show off that he was going to fuck somebody else.  
  
With a sigh, John moved back out to Emma and signalled with a nod up the second set of stairs toward his bedroom, following close behind her as she went, giving her bum a playful slap on the way, half hoping it might be loud enough to rouse Sherlock, to clue him in, to annoy him. Emma, of course, knew none of this and giggled, covering her mouth with her hand when John shushed her.  
  
“Come here,” John purred as they tripped through his bedroom door, grabbing and lifting her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. It hurt his back and strained his shoulder, though it was fleeting and quickly forgotten.

“Oh _yes_ ,” she moaned with a bright, promising smile and cupped the back of his head, leaning in for a deep, overly wet, bossy, alcohol-fuelled kiss. “God, you’re _good_ at that.”

John hummed in response, trying not to think of how different she felt and tasted compared to Sherlock, and began kissing along her neck, carrying her to the bed, “You have _no_ idea,” he grinned, dropping her down carefully and reaching for her skirt, folding it neatly up around her waist. John looked at the creamy, soft appearance of her legs, eyed the even softer look to her beautiful abdomen and went down on his knees, drawing his lips up the insides of each thigh in turn. “May I?”

“You _better_!” she chuckled, spreading her legs open at the mere suggestion and lifting her hips with a wanton sigh. It exposed her to him, let him know her intimate scent, let him see how much she wanted him, how trusting and eager she was, and John took a moment to gaze at the at it all, pushing back on a sudden mental image of Sherlock in the same underwear. “Not got much in here, have you? Can definitely tell you’re a military man.”

“Uh, yes. I don't see the point in accumulating stuff, in creating a mess. I have enough of that downstairs,” John replied with a quiet laugh, using his thumb to slide her small lace knickers across to bare her vulva, which was already glistening and wet. He hesitated a moment, wondered why he felt a strange building of uncertainty when he’d done such an act many times before in the past, and then leaned in, running his tongue languidly from top to bottom, sampling her sweet, musky taste on his tongue. John opened her wide with his thumb and forefinger, sliding closer, deeper, to caress, lick and suck in a well-practised way.

Emma gasped and arched her back, “Oh _fuck yes_!” she groaned in enjoyment, her genitals fluttering and pulsing in gathering arousal, getting hot and swollen with want. “Yes, John, _fuck_! _J_ _ust_ like that.”

“You can direct me,” John told her, pushing a finger inside and gently exploring, searching for her g-spot as he continued to play with her clit, using short flicking licks of his tongue alongside longer, rougher strokes, motions that kept her guessing and constantly on edge. “And moan for me. I like it.”

“I bet you do,” she laughed with another gasp, grasping his hair and pulling hard, grinding herself against his face, his mouth, and onto his finger. “And that’s...not going to be a problem because— _oh fuck—_ you’re doing _all_ the right things!”

John grinned, his confidence and enthusiasm restored as he lapped at her silken folds, added a second finger, and found her g-spot, giving it a firm stroke. His other hand, meanwhile, he sent up her body, tracing the curves of her hips, the slope of her waist, and finally to the hot mound of breast. As he pressed and teased her nipple through the layers of fabric that covered it, John noticed her legs begin to shake, her hand and legs clenching tighter and tighter around his head, so John increased the actions of his tongue and lips, sucking and licking across her skin in a varied shapes until she was all out trembling in an uncontrollable fit of ecstasy.

“Oh yes, _oh God_!” Emma cried out in a hitching moan, squirming and then squealing of delight, “ _F_ _uck_! - Fuck, _fuck_ , I’m gonna come! Jesus fucking _Christ_ _—Y_ _es_ , right there, John, keep going... _yes_!”

Attempting to keep Emma's legs open with his shoulders so he wasn’t smothered, John continued his ministrations and was almost suffocated when she bucked into his face, “That's it...” he moaned against her slick skin, “Come on...” His hand ached slightly from the angle he was thrusting his fingers, but he remained in place and set about pushing and rubbing at her g-spot, trying to make the orgasm as exquisite as he could.

She screamed shrilly when her climax washed over her and violently thrashed against him, her pubic bone knocking painfully against his nose and fingers nearly ripping out a chunk of his hair, “ _Oh_ _fuck_!” she gasped aloud, panting and shaking and grinding into his face harder than he liked, smearing her slick all over him. “John...God. You’re _good_! - Doctor’s are though, I suppose? Know their way around...”

“Maybe, or I'm just naturally talented?” John huffed out in a short chuckle, secretly taking the time to wipe himself off on his sleeve before then distracting her with trailing kisses up her torso and along her neck where he could nuzzle at her jaw, “Think you can manage another one? I have condoms...”

Emma giggled and grinned, pulling her phone free to facetiously check the time, “Yeah. I think I can manage more than another one,” she told him with a light-hearted tone. “Could stay over all night if you like? Continue things in the morning?”

John considered it for a moment, but the idea of it didn’t settle as well as it previously might, “I'm at work early in the morning,” he lied with a small apologetic smile, “and my flatmate isn't a fan of people staying over. Gets a bit grumpy about it all. - I think it's best that you go home tonight, but maybe another night you could stay?” He shot her a flirtatious glance to try and deflect her attention and seal the deal, then stood, pulling off his shirt, trousers and vest to leave him in just his tight boxers, ones that left very little to the imagination and which showed off his quite generous erection.

“Well, well, well, hello there,” she crooned at the sight, reaching to caress and then cup him. John found her small hand oddly unsatisfying. “I knew you were gifted. You walk like you’ve got a big dick, you know. Have that sort of swagger about you.”

“Do I?” John smiled, reaching swiftly for her top and pulling it over her head. Her breasts were what many would agree to be perfect handfuls, gorgeously weighted and a pretty, flattering shape.

They suited her, wonderfully matched to her body structure and attractively resting in a bra that only added to their beauty. John stroked across both with his fingers, cupping the sides of each with the palms of his hands, and then leaned in to kiss the inviting cleavage they created. He twisted from them seconds later to reach for the condoms in the top drawer, pushing aside the lube that met his fingertips first, knowing he wouldn't be needing it and hating what it reminded him of.

Grabbing a packet, John leaned away, straightened up and tore it open, “Do you have a preference on position?”

Emma blinked at him and gave a breathless, surprised smile, “ _Oh_ , um, yeah, sure! I like being on top if that’s all right with you?”

“Absolutely,” John agreed, and shimmied out of his boxers without a hint of shame, reaching to steady his cock as it bobbed free.

He stroked it once at Emma’s avid interest and then settled the condom in place, pushing his hips toward her when she motioned to finish the positioning, taking her time and fondling every inch of him. Smiling, John let her explore him but pulled her to her feet before she could take him in her mouth and kissed her, hands moving to unzip her skirt and pull it down her legs.

“Bra off too?” he asked as he saw her twitch shyly at his fingers coming to rest on the hook. At her timid, hesitating nod, John kissed her cheek, the corner of her awkward smile, and the tip of her nose. “You're very pretty, Emma. You shouldn’t be shy about how you look.” With the bra thrown to one side, John bent his head to press kisses around her nipples, touching her gently.

“Yeah. Well...you know. The last relationship I was in – actually a lot of past relationships – my partner, uh, teased me a bit about them,” Emma explained with a sigh. “And other women, ever since school, have...commented on the look of them. So I, uh, I can’t help it, really. Just one of those things—They look great in a bra, pushed up and decked out, but…” She looked down at them with a wrinkled nose as he guided her back to the bed, lying down with her and allowing her to get atop him, and then shrugged her shoulders. “Just one of my many insecurities. Something I’ve always hated--”

“ _Right_ , that's it,” John huffed with a grin and pulled her down so they could kiss for a moment, then he began kissing back along her neck and chest, working his way to her breasts, which he cupped and fondled, “There are perfect. _You_ are perfect. There is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with the way you look. - Your boobs are _fantastic_ , your bum is quite frankly ‘ _killer_ ’ and obviously your manner and personality are _magnificent_ , otherwise we wouldn’t have clicked as fast as we did.” John pressed a kiss over each of her nipples, blowing small teasing gusts of air over them so they hardened. “Plus, you know, I'm a doctor, so you _have_ to listen to me.”

“But...they’re a bit lopsided,” she muttered, though she was grinning back at him brightly, flattered by the compliments. “I know all women have one breast bigger than the other, but it’s _really_ apparent with mine.” Cradling John’s face, she stroked at his cheeks and looked over his features with a soft expression. “I appreciate it though, John. I _really_ do. So, thanks. - I’m glad I stumbled into you. Almost literally, wasn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” John laughed, “If it wasn't for my quick responses we'd have both been on the floor. It was one heck of a stroke of luck.” Kissing along her neck, he ran his hand down to gently tickle and stroke over her clit again. “Look, you take the lead, all right? You do what you want to do in order to get the pleasure you need. Don't worry about me. I just want to see that pretty face when you get close...that alone gets me off.”

Emma frowned, “Come now, I can’t _ignore_ you. I want you to enjoy yourself too. I mean, we’re both here for the same thing, aren’t we? It’s a team effort,” she giggled, wiggling eagerly, her skin red with arousal.

“Oh believe me,” John purred, “I'm going to like anything you do to me. How could I not? I just prefer to see my lovers come first. Makes me feel good – seeing them so taken by pleasure. So let’s get you on your way to one and then we'll worry about me, yeah?”

“Doctor’s orders?” she joked, writhing and stretching and arching above him as he kept up his touches. “Mm...how can I really argue with that? It’s more than most offer.” Taking John’s cock in hand, she squeezed, caressed, and fondled it, trailing her fingers over the edge of his covered glans, following a vein down to the base. “You’ve got a nice looking dick, you know.” Moving up onto her knees, getting comfortable, she aligned him with her hot, wet entrance, and moaned as she pressed him in. “Feels _great_ as well.”

John hummed, closing his eyes, and moved his hands to her hips, keeping her steady, “You feel just as great to me too,” he murmured. The sensation was nice, but it wasn't anything extraordinary and he found himself wanting, needing, more that her body could offer. He supposed it was because he’d only had sex with Sherlock, off and on, for months, and he’d become accustomed to the tighter, more exhilarating sensation, of anal sex. Not that things with Emma was bad! It was definitely pleasant, as sex tended to be, but it just didn't have the same spark as his moments with Sherlock. “Yes, really, really great.”

Letting out a happy exhale when he was fully within her, Emma wiggled in place, “We should _definitely_ do this again,” she breathed with a curling smirk and John opened his eyes to a directed wink. Chuckling at her coquettish nature, John lifted his chest up as Emma leaned her petite hands on his shoulders and moved her hips in a slow, rolling, rhythm, working up to a pace that suited her. “Feels like it’s been _years_ since I had a good shag.”

“Well, you know where I am,” John grunted, reaching to cup and roll her breasts in his hands again.

It all felt wrong. Her hands were too small against his chest, whereas Sherlock's were much larger and more possessive. Her hair was too long, too fruity and tickled his nose where it had come loose from her up-do, nothing like Sherlock’s, being short, curly and smooth. Not to mention John had grown rather used to feeling Sherlock's cock rubbing against him, something that Emma certainly didn't have. At that thought, at the itching, drawing want and comparison to Sherlock, John began to feel the first pinpricks of panic rising within him, would this always be something he thought of now? Would Sherlock be at the top of his mind whenever he was trying to fuck somebody else? This was really bad.

“And you know where _I_ am,” she replied after a few moaning breaths, dropping her head back as she moved faster, lifting up on him only to drop back down. It was jarringly familiar, yet Emma was curvy, soft, light, and much less wanton. Nothing like Sherlock. Nothing at all. “Any time. God, _yes_ , any time you want really. After hours. Weekends.” Her flesh was too malleable at her hips, her waist, her muscle definition different and though pleasing, it was weird after such a lengthy amount of time. “ _Mm_! Yes...I love this... _love_ being in control. _Fuck yes_!”

“Yeah… yeah, it's...it’s good,” John rambled, unsure of what else to say or even do now that he couldn’t stop his mind from racing, from picking things apart.

Should he stop her? Tell her that this had all been a misunderstanding? That really he wanted to go downstairs and bugger his flatmate? Not really the best time to raise the issue when he was deep inside her, and they had an understanding, a give and take. Emma was just a fill-in for when Sherlock wasn’t interested, for when John needed something and unable to get anything, and he was a convenient, friendly rebound for her.

Instead of bringing up the problem, embarrassing them both and driving himself crazy, John held on and tried to keep his breathing steady, tried to make noises that would sound like he was having a good time. Not that it wasn't good sex! It was perfectly average, normal sex that he had once been desperate to get for weeks and weeks and weeks… but now, it just didn't seem enough.

Emma moved wildly above him after a few moments, angling herself, seeking more stimulation, and John promptly relocated one hand to caress her clit, “ _Oh_! Oh, _yes_ , John! Fuck...yes...yes... _yes_ …” she cried out.

“That's it…” John groaned, eyes flicking across Emma's face, her blissed-out expression, her blotchy chest, and then to his fingers, which were strumming more and more sounds of pleasure from her. 

However, even with her impending orgasm brought by his hands, even with the spectacular look of rapture on her face, John couldn’t stop his thoughts from churning once more. He should have been pleased. He was having sex. Sex with someone who he actually quite fancied and liked as a person. Emma was sweet, pretty, bubbly, and she was funny too, had kept John smiling all night when they were chatting at the club, but now he couldn't seem to work out why the connection had been lost.

It was obviously Sherlock related, these things always were to do with him. It was what he had offered, what they had done, what they had continued to do, what they never should have done in the first place. Was it just because of Sherlock being a man, though? If he slept with another man, instead of a woman, would that ease these strange tensions of his? Would finding someone with the skills and body and confidence and wanton eagerness as those of Sherlock be the right way to go about alleviating it all?

With Sherlock, and promiscuous attitude, suddenly invading his mind, John felt a strong pulse of arousal. He remembered how Sherlock came hands-free from prostate stimulation, how his face had scrunched up in bliss, before relaxing and loosening as he hit his orgasm. He remembered the kisses they had shared, the kisses that had not been needed, yet had happened, had changed the experience and burned through John’s veins.

Abruptly hit with a blast of affection and longing, John shuddered, “ _Oh shit,_ ” he muttered, hands grabbing onto Emma's hip tighter. Was he so easily manipulated and charmed by Sherlock that the mere thought of him, the simple fact that he’d been able to have him as he’d often thought about, sent him spiralling in a whirlpool of want for only him? Oh shit, this was bad. Not only could this be the end of their sexual adventures, but their friendship as well. “Oh _G_ _od_...”

“ _Ye_ _s_!” Emma gasped out in reply, groping at his chest, rubbing a nipple, clawing a tingling path down his arms, and then moving harder, chasing her second climax with a panting squeal. “Yes, yes, _yes_!--” Surging up unexpectedly with a frantic jerking of her hips and a rippling spasm of her muscles, Emma fell over the edge into a crash of euphoria, screaming and laughing and moaning.

John looked up at her, watching as he internally struggled to decide on what to do, on if he should do anything at all. He was already doing something, after all, had already chosen to sleep with her and to commit to what he supposed was another ‘friends with benefits’ relationship. Should he allow it to continue and spend all his meetings with Emma in a state of dubious thought and frustratingly unsure of his own desires? John had wanted to stick it under Sherlock’s nose to annoy him, had been looking forward to it ever since he had met her, and instead he was annoying himself, was ruining his plans and acting like more of an idiot.

With a few timid thrusts, John gave a staged groan of release, just to put an end to it, knowing it might be better for them both, and then laid back, pushing his hand through his hair and forcing his breathing to be heavier than it really was. His cock, from the sensations he felt whenever Emma twitched and shifted, had already partly deflated due to his confused and wandering thoughts, and was slowly trying to slip out of her. John reached up to pull her down for a chaste kiss and swiftly rolled her to one side, pulling out of her, covering himself with his hand so she couldn't see his lie and then peeling off the condom to wrap into a nearby tissue.

With a horrible tension in his balls and shaky legs, John let Emma curl herself around him, “You good?” he asked, purely as something to kill the silence.

“More than good, I’d say,” Emma told him with a curling smirk, nuzzling against his shoulder and neck, pressing gentle kisses there. “You?”

“Mm, great, yeah,” John agreed, hoping that Emma was too languid and high off her orgasm to notice his mumbled fib. He exhaled and kissed the top of her head, hating himself more and more. “It was _fantastic_.”

Humming, she pressed closer, warm and soft and affectionate, and lifted her face to give his chin a peck, “Yeah, even the bit before the sex was good. I mean, I definitely like sleeping with you, but I also like hanging out with you. Talking to you. Even seeing you.”

“Yeah, we should do it again. All of it,” John said in a half-promise, wondering how he could kick her out without sounding like a complete dick. He needed to have a shower. Wash the shame from his skin. “One weekend when I'm not working. We'll make a day of it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she nodded, spending a couple more minutes gazing at him, before she seemed to sense the gathering awkwardness and rummaged for her phone, checking the time, and giving a stretching sigh. “I best get back then?”

“Yeah, sorry you have to go so early,” John lied, “But I just – work tomorrow and you know how patients can be - Let me call you a cab?”

“Oh, go on then,” she grinned with a friendly nudge to his side, slipping off the bed to collect her clothes and redress. “Where’s the bathroom? I want to just freshen up a bit before I get into a taxi.”

John winced, not really happy about having her that close to Sherlock nor to her possibly being inflicted by his cruel, invasion deductions, but he couldn't exactly deny her after his behaviour, “Uh, sure. I'll sure you, just come down and follow me,” he said with a tight smile, jumping up to pull on his jeans and vest, leaving his shirt, socks and shoes off.

Emma went down the steps squashed against his side, clasping his hand and cheekily putting a finger to her lips when she spotted Sherlock, who was still on the sofa, seemingly having not moved a muscle, “I’ll be quick and quiet,” she whispered as John brought her through the dark kitchen and into the short corridor to the bathroom and Sherlock’s bedroom. Emma slipped into the former with a wink, disappearing inside as noisily as she was able.

Shutting the glass door to the corridor, separating him from the kitchen, John took the moment to call for a taxi, awkwardly trying to tune out the sound of Emma peeing. For some reason, that seemed more intimate than the sex, and John shuffled his feet against the carpet as he waited and murmured into his phone. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was awake or aware, though knowing him, he probably was, but even so, John felt a lot more alert and on edge. Gone was the cockiness from before when he’d wanted Sherlock to know, to hear, to be jealous, be irritated, now he just wanted to get Emma out as civilly as he could.

“Smells lovely in there,” she complimented once she came back out after, her hands, face and underarms having been washed and briefly dried. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it would be, what with two men living here.”

“Admittedly, sometimes it doesn't… living with a mad scientist doesn't exactly help matters too,” John sniggered, putting his hand on the base of Emma's spine, “Your taxi should be here in a few. They tend to push us to the top of the queue.”

Emma’s eyebrows went up, “Lucky sod,” she replied, leaning against him and nodding to the glass door. “He must be a deep sleeper if he hasn’t woken up. Was sleeping on the couch, right? I made a bit of noise, how did he not hear me?”

“He's in his mind palace,” John said and then sighed at the wide-eyed and perplexed look she gave him, though he was sure his affection for his friend was blindingly obvious, “It's sort of a – memory map thing. Everything he knows is stored up in that head of his, in a specific place for when he needs it. He's probably enjoying some Victorian crime scene files or maybe learning a new language.”

“Oh right, yeah,” she nodded with a bemused smile. “I’ve heard of that... I think. Takes years of practice, right?”

“Yeah, well, he's a genius with a _lot_ of time on his hands,” John laughed lowly, “He's brilliant at it, though. I tried quizzing him once, it was _fascinating_! He can just pop into his mind palace and find stored facts with just a moments notice. Barely takes a second – He only stays in there longer if he’s, resorting, deleting, trying to work out an ‘unanswerable’ riddle, extremely shocked by something or when he’s meditating, which would be laughable if you knew what he was like. He doesn’t seem the type to stay quiet and still for long moments of time, but he does.”

Emma looked at him with shock and relevance, “Amazing!” she said, keeping her voice down.

“Mm, but it's probably best we get you out of here before he wakes up,” John insisted, shrugging at her and gesturing in Sherlock’s direction, “He does these mean 'deductions' and it can be quite – _intense_. The first night we met, I walked into a room, scarcely said a handful of words to him, and he could tell me I had been in the army, knew things about my sibling, just… _everything_. No matter how difficult and rude, he’d say it. It can be a bit much. He doesn't really know when to stop. He can, and will, reveal every embarrassing flaw or decision you've made.”

“...Ah,” Emma snorted.

John nodded and, opening the glass door, steered her silently through the kitchen and onto the landing, guiding her steadily down the stairs just as his phone ringing in his pocket marking the arrival of the taxi, “Cabs here. I'll walk you out,” he said, taking her hand until they reached the front door. John then kissed her gently on the lips, opening the door to check that the taxi was exactly right outside and letting go of her hand. “Text me, yeah?”

“Oh _unquestionably_ ,” she beamed, cupping his face to smooch him again. “Thank you for the great night out and the _great_ fucking.” Snorting with laughter, she kissed him one last time and skipped away to get into the taxi, waving at him from the window and making rather suggestive gestures.

Shooting her a smile, John waited until the cab had driven off into the fog of London before he closed the door and leaned against it with a long, frustrated sigh of breath. His feet were freezing and he desperately needed a shower, but he didn't seem to be able to move from the spot. What had he done? What was he doing? What did this mean? Was he to find a man now, see if it was the same, see if it was different? He had the option to do anything really, to try whatever he wanted, or that was the impression Sherlock had given, despite his obvious dislike of his own words. John was free to try, to experiment, to possibly cure his ridiculous, continuous addiction to his flatmate, that just kept getting worse as time went on.

After five minutes or so, John reluctantly climbed back up the stairs and into the kitchen to fill a glass with water, downing it in several large gulps and filling it again. Sherlock, from what John could see, hadn't moved, hadn’t so much as twitched a finger, which was as suspicious as it was so normal. Had he heard? Was he really so deep into his own mind, his fancy palace, that everything was lost on him? Or perhaps he was actually asleep? John knew that when he did sleep, he slept like the dead, so it was possible he’d exhausted himself into a coma-like slumber.

Putting the glass in the sink for later, John headed to the bathroom and switched on the light and the shower. Emma was right, the room did smell nice and John was quite thankful that Sherlock had not left anything rotting in the tub like he was exceedingly prone to doing. It smelt of him, of Sherlock’s posh cologne and attractive conditioner. Was it intentional?

“Probably is,” John grumbled to himself, glaring at the bottles the scents had come from. “Prick...”

Stripping angrily, John stepped immediately under the rush of hot water, sighing as it poured over his skin in burning sloshes. The lingering stink of latex and female arousal had followed him from the bedroom, was still smeared into him, clinging to his hair and flesh, and so he was glad when it began to be sluiced away down the drain. He ended up rubbing the rest of it away by the shower gel to make doubly sure, not wanting it on him, not wanting the remaining evidence of his failures to haunt him. Why had he thought this had been a good idea to begin with?

While massaging aching joints and muscles, it didn't take long for his cock began to perk up in an attempt to seek gratification, after being robbed of it earlier, and with a gusty sigh John gave in, and wrapped his hand around it, giving a few squeezes, stroking the frenulum and the soft, spongy head under the foreskin. It felt ridiculous, though needed, and John cupped his bollocks with his other hand, rolling them as he began a rhythm, which soon had him biting his lip to keep from groaning aloud. It would be quick, John knew. Not that he was really disappointed by that as he didn’t want to stay and wallow in both self-pity and draining filth. He just wanted it over with, wanted the stinging tension eased so he could sleep a hopefully dreamless sleep.

When his orgasm came it was, as he’d expected, a weak and insignificant affair. Just a brief high of pleasure followed by the stillness of climaxing alone. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, but it was definitely a very unwelcome one. He felt utterly pathetic and glared down at the seeping dribble of his ejaculate, rinsing both his hand and the tiles to get rid of it all. John finished his shower quick then, uncaring when the shampoo he used dripped into his eyes and stung his senses, he deserved the flush of discomfort and overriding annoyance. He needed the distraction from his rubbish thoughts and mixed up feelings.  
  
Eventually, he dragged himself to bed and tossed and turned, attempting to allow sleep to overcome him, but he couldn't. The thoughts, the thoughts of everything, the ones which had crossed his mind during sex with Emma, and the ones after, wouldn't go away, they reeled around his mind, bringing more and more confusion and shame in their wake until, finally, John fell asleep exhausted and feeling far too vulnerable.


	5. Chapter 5

Morning came far too early, along with a splitting headache and sharp pain in his shoulder from his last night activities. John had known he would suffer the consequences of his actions, but had hoped that things would have been eased, if just a little, from the shower. Apparently not.

Rolling off the bed, wincing and stretching his joints, he got up and reached for his dressing gown, grimacing when he noticed the condom still wrapped in a tissue next to the base of his bedside lamp. He’d almost forgotten about that and seeing it again, remembering what he had done, made his entire body prickle with shame. He’d only ever faked an orgasm three times during his life so far and each time it had been difficult, painful, and horrifically embarrassing. Picking up and crunching a tight hold of it, he went downstairs, where he threw it in the bin in the bathroom before using the loo, brushing his teeth and washing his face.

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was awake, as the flat still seemed very, suspiciously quiet and he hadn’t so much as peeked into the living room on his way down. Normally silence could mean numerous things when it came to Sherlock; he could be in one of his dark, brooding, depressive moods, he could be out, he could be asleep, he could be feigning sleep, he could be working on some sort of experiment, he could be watching things on mute again, he could be using John’s laptop for insidious means, or he could be pestering Mrs Hudson about the whereabouts of his skull. For good or bad, it always put John on edge, knowing he had to be ready for anything, only now it was mingled with embarrassment and incertitude. However, as much as he wanted to stick his head in the sand and sneak out, to ignore everything, and pretend he never brought home Emma, he knew couldn't avoid the subject, or Sherlock’s opinion on it forever, and so with a deep breath, John forced himself into the kitchen to scan for any sign of his scheming, damning flatmate.

Finding each inch of every corner empty and the imprints in the couch gone, John went back to the bathroom to look through the adjoining door, first through the swirled glass, and then through the gap as he opened it up. Sherlock was bundled under the covers, face hidden by a fluffed up and creased corner of duvet, hair a messy nest of dark curls on a pillow that was sideways and thumped to submission. He was breathing shallowly but steadily, the edge of some inhales jagged with a low vibrating snore. He was asleep, John was certain. Sherlock could be a fantastic mimic and one hell of an actor, but the slight, irregular snores were not something John thought Sherlock could force, or would know he had to force unless he’d had the hindsight to record himself sleeping for years. Faintly wary of Sherlock’s talents for trickery, John watched him for a minute or two longer, remaining silent and still, just in case he was wrong, but Sherlock stayed in bed, twisted like a lithe, flexible cat under the sheets.

Returning again to the kitchen, John set about making breakfast for himself and putting aside extras for Sherlock later. He tried to plan what he might say in response to whatever it was that may be brought up, but his mind was blank and his mood was low. How was he going to tackle this? How was it he was supposed to handle it? Stopping things with Emma was probably a smart, necessary move, but then should he find someone else? Should he befriend a man with the same intentions? It made John’s head and gut ache to think of, he wanted nothing more to just go back to how things were before. Before everything. John settled in front of the TV with his small meal and mug of tea, and sighed, staring at the chair opposite him, wondering how things might have been if he had said no that first time.

Lost in his own head, consumed and overcrowded by belligerent thoughts, he only realised that the man he was trying to hide from had appeared, sleep ruffled and soft, when he grunted a greeting and went about silently brewing his own mug of tea. The worn, inside-out t-shirt he frequently wore for pyjamas, and his silky, rippling, sleek dressing gown, was hanging off one of his pale shoulders and John stared at it, twisting to follow it from behind the headrest of his chair, and trying not to be too obvious about it. He didn’t want to give Sherlock the advantage, to clue him in to what was churning in his core and running around and around in John’s mind.

Sometimes John hated him with a passion and fierceness that often shocked him, and this was another one of those times. Sherlock was annoyingly alluring even when he wasn’t trying to be so. He didn’t know how graceful and sophisticated and perfect he was. Didn’t know how much he rubbed John the wrong way as much as he did the right way. Without effort he could draw every eye in the room, could command attention and even a bit of fear by just stepping foot into someone’s personal space, everything he seemed to do was almost never without reason, without practice and planning. Sherlock’s every step appeared to be predetermined by him seconds before he actually took them, before anyone knew he was going to take them. John allowed a glare to narrow his sight and watched Sherlock shuffle around in the kitchen, bare feet padding gently and ridiculously elegantly against the tiled floor.

Sherlock abruptly clattered a spoon against his mug and John flinched, almost spilling his tea, both nervous and highly amped up, and kept his down as Sherlock entered the living room and dropped into his chair with a sigh, “What?” he questioned John with a lifted eyebrow, tea in one hand, and biscuits in the other.

“Nothing,” John replied, taking a bite of his toast and giving a one sided shrug, “You just startled me with the spoon. That's all.”

“I startled _you_... with a _spoon_?” Sherlock slowly repeated, looking at John over the rim of his mug with a small scoff. It made John’s face heat with irritation and humiliation both.

“It was a loud, sharp noise and it startled me... I think it’s because I'm... still half asleep,” John mumbled, keeping his eyes on Sherlock in an attempt to hide his lies and forcing a brief smile, “Did you sleep well?”

With an arrogant head tilt, Sherlock hummed in affirmative and gave a cocky, teasing curl of his lips, “I know _you_ didn’t.”

“No, I didn't,” John begrudgingly admitted with a puff of strained laughter, bracing himself for what else was to come while he tried to save face, “I wrenched my shoulder. It’s been really sore.”

“Mm-hm, yes. Twisted it during the piss-poor intercourse, I’d imagine. Got to be tough keeping up _such_ a pretence. Trying to distract her from all that _false_ pleasure,” Sherlock commented complacently, flashing a smug, knowing, and snide glance his way as he took a rather haughty sip of tea. “Oh and we mustn’t forget the _sad_ excuse for a masturbation session after the fact, that’s got to impact that shoulder of yours.”

John, having stupidly taken that moment to drink, choked and coughed as it scorched its way out of his nose, “ _You_ … you were supposed to be in the _mind palace_!” he exclaimed, tapping his chest until the choking fit stopped. “You—It _wasn't_ piss-poor! It was _fine_. Good. It was _good_.”

“From fine to good, hm?” Sherlock snorted, gesturing with a chocolate biscuit and leaning forward, their eyes locked, and his mouth tilted in amused condescension. “ _She_ enjoyed it, but you didn’t. Clearly.”

“Just… leave it,” John insisted through clenched teeth, starting to become irate and hot under the collar at Sherlock’s steady, piercing, knowing stare, “I _liked_ it. She was nice. It was--”

“Oh _please_ ,” Sherlock rumbled with a patronising laugh. “Pushing her out of the door once you were done, I can understand, you do that often and we wouldn’t want her to meet me now, would we? Wouldn’t want to ruin things with statements of the truth. - But immediately taking a shower in-which you took yourself in hand to ‘finish yourself off,?’ Now that isn’t normal behaviour for you after sexual intercourse, that isn’t something you partake in if you had liked it, if you had enjoyed it, if you had been _satisfied_ by it.”

“ _Shut up_!” John shouted, slamming down the remains of his breakfast and surging up from the chair, ready to storm out of the room. He, instead, took a step, turning away, and then span back to glare angrily. “What do you _want_ from me? Do you want me to tell you that I didn't enjoy fucking her as much as I enjoyed fucking you? Fine! I _didn't_!” He gestured to Sherlock, seething and breathing hard. “Do you want me to tell you that I compared her body to yours, _insistently_ , the whole way through, and found that I _didn't_ want that plump flesh and rounded hip? Is _that_ what you want?”

Sherlock blinked up at him, visibly affected by the outburst, and reclined back, sinking into his chair, all earlier amusement gone, “Sleep with a man than,” he intoned, dipping a biscuit with an abruptly distant gaze, expression morphing to one of his unreadable masks. “Problem solved.”

“No. No, I...I thought about that...” John admitted in a grousing mutter, a grimace taking over his face as he pushed his trembling left hand through his hair, “But I'd only end up comparing him to you and it...it wouldn’t be fair on that person. It wasn't fair on Emma. I mean, yes, you’re right, I _lied_ to her! Lied with more than words. I… I acted like I’d – well, you know – but I was barely even... ‘interested’ by the end of it! This is _not_ who I am, it's _not_ what I do!”

“...John, you don’t know if you’ll compare until you do it. Until you try it,” Sherlock uttered, crossing his legs with a frustratingly sophisticated rotate of his ankle. “Evidently you want the embrace of a man over that of a woman, this may change later on but for now, it’s what you want, so _do what you want_. - Finish things with her, with this Emma, and try someone else. It wasn’t serious anyway. You weren’t dating her. There is no obligation to continue nor to be truthful. So end it. Move on--”

“Have sex with me?” John suggested, surprising even himself as he looked at Sherlock’s startled face, heart skipping hard enough to make him tremble, “Th-that’s what I want. I _want_ to have sex with you. _Right now_.”

“ _Now_?” Sherlock questioned with a small scoff, putting his mug down on the side table. “You just—”

“Right. Now,” John repeated and closed the short space between them determinedly, every inch of him tingling in anticipation. There was a brief moment of hesitation when he stood toe to toe with Sherlock, but John pushed passed it and grabbed him by his dressing gown collar, yanking him up for a clumsy kiss.

Sherlock huffed out a stunned moan and fumbled to put his biscuits down, disconnecting their mouths at a sway but remaining close enough that their noses bumped, “ _Here_?” he gasped with a quick glance at the living room, eyebrows arching high before dropping with a furrow a second later. “Is this because you’re angry with me again? - You can’t blame _me_ for _your_ choice in a sex partner. And though I quite enjoyed being your punching bag previously, I’m not altogether interested in doing that today—”

“Not angry,” John replied honestly, cupping Sherlock's face to kiss him again, delighted by the way he felt against his lips, under his hands. There was a faint prickle of stubble across his masculine jaw and John rubbed at it, drawing fingernails against the grain. “I was... annoyed at the arrogant bloody teasing, like I always am, but… I just—just _fuck me_. In my chair. I want you _now_.”

“...Condoms and lubricant,” Sherlock reminded him after small pause, pointing over John’s shoulder towards his bedroom and then drawing his touch along John’s neck with a tantalizing caress. “You know where they are.”

John nudged their foreheads together with a hum of agreement, taking a moment to inhale Sherlock's scent and bask like a foolish idiot in his heat, before he turned and headed for the bedroom. The bed was unmade, crumpled and probably still warm, but John ignored the temptation to touch and reached for Sherlock's bedside drawer, yanking at it and rummaging through to pull out the lube and two condoms, carrying them back through to the living room. He began stripping as he went, leaving a trail of clothes through the corridor, spilling into the kitchen until he was in his underwear by the time he reached Sherlock, who was still perched in his chair, lips parted and expression decipherable with a wanton stupor. Looming over him, John swooped to kiss him once more and grabbed Sherlock’s arms, tugging him from the seat entirely.

Seductively, Sherlock pressed their bodies together as much as he could and shrugged out of his dressing gown, flicking it away behind him, nudging John backwards and down into his chair, “Undress me,” he breathed with an impatient tremor, shifting to stand between John’s spread legs once John had settled into the seat and leaning close so John had access to his pyjamas.

John marked the progress of the t-shirt’s removal with soft kisses, biting at the flesh of Sherlock’s stomach, licking his nipples, and sucking at the line of his clavicle as he then threw the soft article of clothing to the ground. Sherlock's lovingly worn bottoms were next and John slipped his fingers into the waistband to slowly slide them down, turning his hands so his palms touched heated skin all the way to Sherlock’s shivering knees. He was already half hard, just from light touching and teasing, just from the promise of the sex that was to come, and John peered at Sherlock’s swelling length up close, felt the warmth from it on his face as he leaned in.

John wanted to taste, wanted to feel it growing on his tongue, in his mouth, and distorting his cheek, and so made a snap decision, tightening the trousers where they were around Sherlock’s legs and practically trapping him in place, forcing him stand still before him. With a revealing glance up, John gathered his courage, blew a seductive exhale on Sherlock’s bulging shaft and took the tip into his mouth, swirling it with his tongue.

Giving a garbled, gasping outcry, Sherlock gripped at John’s hair at a scramble, “Cuh- _condom_!” he reprimanded with several sharp taps, cock rapidly stiffening and extending with an eager twitch. “ _Ah_!—John, this _really_ isn’t…”

“I know, but...let me just...do this, please?” John mumbled before taking Sherlock down his throat with an impatient swallow. He was rusty and out of practice, but it didn’t seem to matter to Sherlock, who trembled and choked on an inhale, staring down at him. Pulling back, John licked around the head again and pushed the end of his seeking tongue into the space between foreskin and glans.

Sherlock whimpered above him, a drop of pre-ejaculate quickly glistening as it beaded thickly, “ _John_ …” he whispered, voice going down several octaves in obvious delight, “I feel I must warn you: I’ve _never_ had...this done to me before…”

Moving off with an audible pop and a smug grin, John curled his hand around the wetly slicked base of Sherlock's cock, “Don't try to choke me and don't come in my mouth, and you'll be great,” he heard himself purr, rubbing his lips against another droplet of per-ejaculate and smearing it up his philtrum as he dipped down to lick up the thick, throbbing vein running along the underside, following it to the tip which he swallowed down again, this time with a deep, filthy moan.

“ _Oh_...oh no, wait... _wait_ I…” Sherlock trailed off into a guttural groan and quivered bodily, hands fisting into John’s nape, then reaching behind to cling onto the headrest, pushing John back. His hips, although twitching forwards intermittently and flushing prettily, didn’t thrust or roll even if it seemed Sherlock wanted them to, and so John reached for them, smoothing the pads of his fingertips up the scorching arc of each hipbone to a trim, shaking waist.

This was what he liked, this was what he wanted, and what he knew would no doubt plague his fantasies for months to come during any and all dry spells between them. It felt good, more than good, to have Sherlock invading him, over him, surrounding him. He let his hands stray down to Sherlock's bollocks after he’d taken his fill of a heaving, gorgeous torso and juddering abdomen, and cupped them, rocked them, running a finger across the seam and then inching backwards along the line of Sherlock’s perineum until John’s touch fluttered over the hot, tightly wrinkled, greedy clench of skin. At the tickling contact Sherlock almost crumpled to the floor, knees knocking together as he shuddered in intense, lustful, yearning, only steadied by the constant pressure of John's hands. John adored his blatant carnal need, sensitivity, desire and how quickly he responded, how fantastic he felt, and could just barely contain his rampant indecent desperation for him.  
  
Leading Sherlock into an animated, provocative swaying dance from the stimulation, enjoying how it pressed his cock along his palate, John then let go of Sherlock’s genitals to reach for the lube and click it open, nudging the bottle against a quivering, white thigh, “Put some in my hands. I'm going to finger you open,” he said bluntly along the side of the saliva-damp flesh of Sherlock’s jumping penis, still occasionally running his tongue across the weeping slit so he could lick away the pre-come.

“ _God_...you need to stop that,” Sherlock husked, breathing heavily, his eyes lidded as he squeezed a large dollop of lubricant onto John’s fingers and palm, “and I need to straddle you... otherwise I’m going to _collapse_.” He tried to free himself from his fabric bonds, bringing his knees up and kicking, getting embarrassed and irritated when all that the action resulted in was more knotted tangles, and a tauter prison. “ _John_! John, let me on with you...”

Helping him by pinning the crotch of his pyjamas with his foot until he was finally able to free himself, John then got rid of the cushion behind him and sat back, allowing for more space on which to climb on, “Fine, _but_ this isn't going to one of those fucks where you tell me what to do and when to do it,” John asserted quietly, their eyes meeting. “Trust me, _please_ , to make sure that you enjoy it, that you get what you need. I'm not going to let you go without satisfaction… I just want to show you what I can do. Just _me_.”

Sherlock frowned at him in dislike as he settled into position, clicking bossily for a condom with a quick glance around and lunging for the closest packet, “What if you do something I don’t like?” he questioned curtly, getting his breathing back under control and narrowing his eyes, mouth pulling out into a small, annoyed pout. “Why must we _constantly_ discuss this? We’re going in circles each and every time – I _do_ enjoy myself, I _do_ get what I need, as do you, I merely make sure you pleasure me in a way I favour. I prefer to set the pace of things and have the most control, and what’s wrong with that? Considering it’s _my_ body you’re going to be _stretching_ , _thrusting_ up into and _invading_ , I think it only fair I get a say on how the task is carried out—And you _love_ it. You like being told what to do. You are always searching for consent, for orders, for feedback. It is a part of you. You can pretend otherwise and lie to yourself, but ultimately you _know_ I’m right.”

“It's going to be different this time,” John said with resolution, hands reaching for Sherlock's cock and arse to grip, squeeze and stroke whilst Sherlock fiddled with the condom, fingers trembling, “Look, please just let me try? You can tell me if you don't like something or if I'm going to hard, as I don't want to hurt you, but trust me enough to not need a running commentary on what to do for you...” Stretching up to brush a gentle kiss at the hinge of Sherlock's jaw as sweetly and persuasive as he could. “You can still tell me to go hard or slow, fast or gentle, but maybe cut back on the brisk prompts?”

Sherlock scoffed sullenly, tearing open the condom packet and swatting John away so he could roll the latex on, “Out of the two of us, _I’m_ the most vulnerable here. You could essentially do _whatever_ you wanted with me if I didn’t make things abundantly clear. - With such commands and order in place, with everything acknowledged and followed, it can’t then come back on me, can’t be turned around and used _against_ me. No one can tell me that they didn’t know, that I didn’t tell them what I wanted, what I can tolerate, what I like and don’t like. No one can _dominant_ me.” He sat down on John’s knees for a moment, peering into his face, and John frowned back at him, realising what it was Sherlock was telling him, what he was insinuating, was disclosing, and what he believed. This was why Sherlock did what he did. This was why there was a barrier, a front, a defence. “I trust you with my life outside of this. Believe me on that. - However, when it comes to sex...it _changes_ people, John. I’ve seen it. I’ve often stood in the aftermath of it. It alters how people think, how they are motivated. The nicest people in the world can turn selfish when their pleasure receptors are going off--”

“No. I can’t believe—Do you honestly think I'd be like _that_?” John exclaimed, not sure whether to feel irritable or horrified, “I've just mimed having an orgasm so that someone else could get off! Do you _really_ think I could be a selfish lover?”

“Oh _bullshit_! - You didn’t do it for her, didn’t do it so she could have an orgasm, you did it for _yourself_ , you did it out of embarrassment and _panic_ ,” Sherlock stated furiously, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers against his bulging, flexing biceps, looking strangely endearing. John hated it and tried to focus on his face, on his cutting, spitting words. “You did it to _distract_ her. You _lied_ to her. And quite frankly, if you can lie so _easily_ during such an intimate and private act, and continue on with the lie after, _well_ …” He trailed off with a scathing shrug as John spluttered in response and then scowled, slapping his hand over John’s mouth to keep all of the defensive and apologetic remarks that battled for dominance back in his throat, avoiding eye contact for a moment and dropping his chin. “Think of it this way, it is similar to how I work. I do things my way. I have the control. I bark the orders. I get to oversee and absorb anything I need to, so I am able to come to the correct and only conclusion. So I am left with all the answers and not held back, or bullied, into the confines of others.”

John knocked Sherlock’s hand away, “ _Sherlock_ , you—”

“What do you want?” Sherlock cut in, sweeping his arms out dramatically. “How on earth can you be _so_ annoying—”

“I _want_ you to not think I would lie to you...” John said interrupted, quietening his voice slowly and shaking his head, “not during this. And to _trust_ me. Both in and out of the bedroom – Emma was...it was wrong of me and...you are not her. That’s the bottom line. You are _not_ her. She is not you.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose frustratingly and then let their gazes meet, pushing up to his knees to get closer and shuffle into position above John’s crotch, “I can’t promise anything. I prefer it the way it is, as do you – Prepare me and let’s get on with it,” he grouched with an impatient wave of his hands.

“ _Sherlock_...”

“There is _literally_ no point in continuing the discussion, John,” Sherlock told him and bent down, shivering as John leaned up to kiss his lips with a glare, using his slicked up fingers to find the small furled opening between Sherlock's buttocks again. With a doctors efficiency, John soon had a digit inside and he peered at Sherlock’s flushed face as he kept it still, letting him enjoy the gentle stretch around John's bigger, thicker finger. “Just one?”

“For now,” John replied, sucking another kiss onto Sherlock’s jaw, “and there is a point in—”

Sherlock dropped his hips greedily, “I can take at _least_ two.”

“Be patient.”

“You didn’t seem to show a lot of patience when you practically _pounced_ on me!”

“Like that, did you?” John found tumbling from his mouth, accompanied by a wickedly curled grin and another kiss, this one sharp and edged with teeth. “That just shows you, doesn’t it? That whenever I _do_ try something different, something to surprise you, something that makes you melt into submission--”

“I am _not_ submissive!”

“---you purr like the overgrown cat that you are,” John finished and took hold of Sherlock’s latex sheathed cock in his free hand. “ _You_ do that, you enjoy it, because you _do_ trust me. Right? Trust me enough to take your throat in my grasp, to tease you open, to--”

“Then why question me?” Sherlock snapped grumpily, accepting John’s amused kiss before giving him a sour look. “Just get on with it...”  
  
Ducking his head and pushing on Sherlock’s stomach, rearranging him, John took the tip of his unaffected erection back into his mouth with a wince at the taste of latex, pressing deeper into him with his finger in both a punishment and a treat. It felt nice to be surrounded by Sherlock, to be interwoven and connected in such an arousing way, wrapped up in his warmth and scent. Being the one to ready him, to be the first to take him into a greedy mouth, and to still have the privilege in bedding him, was just the cherry onto of a very delicious, very mouth-watering, and perfect cake. Or a dark, rich, thick, creamy gateaux. Opening his mouth wider, John let loose a wanton moan and took Sherlock down his contracting throat, curling his finger to prod against Sherlock's prostate as he did so.

Sherlock reached to grasp hold of the headrest again with a low sound of pleasure, “Will you see her again?” he asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

“I don't know,” John admitted when he resurfaced from his avid task and gave a slight cough, licking his lips, swallowing mouthfuls of saliva and only shaking for more, “it's doubtful though I suppose, especially concerning the, uh, sexual element to our friendship… or lack thereof on my side.” Licking roughly, eagerly, along Sherlock's shaft as he worked a second finger inside him and repeated the pause and prodding cycle, John glanced up at Sherlock. “I’ll… talk to her later. Arrange a meet up. Discuss it properly...”

“And… you’re _sure_ about not trying to find a man?” Sherlock gasped, his hips giving a small, wanting undulation as John nuzzled his way to the base of his penis, dragging his teeth lightly over the skin there. “You still… need to fill that aching, perpetual want of yours for the days I am not in the mood.”

John huffed against the hem of the condom, “Why can’t we do it more often?” he asked once again, hating repeating himself more than Sherlock himself, flicked his eyes up and beginning a gentle rhythm with his fingers, cricking them on every third thrust so he could push against Sherlock's prostate and taking his cock in hand. “God I wish you hadn’t put the condom on… I wanted to taste you properly the _whole_ way through.”

“You got to taste beforehand, that’s… that’s enough,” Sherlock stammered through a moan, tipping his head forward in visibly building bliss, pushing onto John’s fingers, trapped between both hands. “And… how... how often is _more often_?—Rub my prostate more. With… with different pressures and... be more random… more unpredictable. I _like_ that. Difficult to do it to myself… I want more inconsistency! I want… I want to be unable to know when the next… next touch is coming.”

Biting back on his complaint, John shot Sherlock a narrowed, unimpressed look, but gave in to his demands, “Just _more often_. Not daily… but maybe… once a fortnight at least? Or weekly? I don't know...” he murmured, pressing down on Sherlock's prostate on the fourth, seventh and then thirteenth thrust, with enough pressure to make Sherlock's eyes flutter.

“No. I will never want it _that_ frequently,” Sherlock whispered, rocking steadily and moaning, the muscles in his abdomen and pelvis tightening as he worked up a vague counter rhythm, penis bobbing. “Rub _more_.”

“Do I _have_ to gag you?” John asked, eyebrow raised. “Okay, listen, maybe we don't have _penetrative_ sex that often but do other things together? Like, what about mutual masturbation? Or oral sex? - You _do_ masturbate, right?”

Sherlock shot him a piercingly sharp glower, “ _Obviously_. However, mostly anal masturbation than anything else. I _have_ referred to my plastic phallic friends more than once,” he replied, tenderly cupping a hand at the back of John’s neck as he leaned more of his weight forward. “Masturbation does not cut it for me and is not something I want frequently either.”

“Okay...” John replied around a sigh, stretching for a soft kiss and giving Sherlock's prostate another sweep. “What about being with me whilst _I_ do it? Kissing me as I do it or – I mean, is that something you'd be interested in?”

“...Whilst you masturbate? Or whilst you have sex with another person?” Sherlock asked, shivering and shifting, eyebrows going up in interest. “Both seem doable.”

“Might be tough finding someone who doesn't mind being watched...” John admitted, not sure if he was keen on the idea put forward or not. It wasn’t like what he had already tried, nothing like anything he’d tried in fact, yet the thought of shagging someone else while Sherlock sat and watched wasn’t as pleasing as it he supposed it could have been. “But, uh, yes, it’s something we can look into.” He sped up the pace of his hand on Sherlock's cock and gave three brushes in a row to his prostate, thoroughly enjoying the way Sherlock shuddered and clenched. “Though masturbating would be the best option, I think… you could, you know, talk to me. During. You know I like your voice. – And although masturbation isn't exactly _ideal_ , I think it'd be better than nothing.”

Letting loose a loud, husky, groan, face getting incredibly blotchy now and temples shining with speckling sweat, Sherlock writhed, “I might be able to find you someone if you—Ah! _God…_ cuh-careful… I’m close to orgasm,” he said shakily, reaching down to pause John’s hands. “ _This_... is exactly why I tell you not… not to touch me during start of our… of our liaisons. I want it to _last_. Not to be over in a few moments – I am _not_ a woman, John. I am not that _woman_ , remember? It’s difficult, and sometimes _painful_ , to have multiple orgasms.”

“You've done it before...” John purred, lathering a wet path up Sherlock’s tensed and heaving abdomen. “ _Twice_ in fact. And I _like_ making you come… it's _incredibly erotic_ to me. - Let me do it? Let me enjoy you, enjoy this, and allow me to make you come again when we _fuck_?” With a slow, sucking bite near Sherlock’s navel, John moved his hand down to cup and stroke his tightly pulled up bollocks.

Sherlock swallowed hard and blushed, “What if…” he trailed off and bit his bottom lip until it bloomed red, looking down at John’s hand between his legs, quivering with lust ardently. “All right then, fine.”

“What if what?” John probed, leaning up to kiss and suck on Sherlock's nipple, adding a bruise to a patch of pale skin beside it.

Moving trembling hands with unsteady fingers to John’s shoulders, sliding them up and along his neck, into his hair and across his scalp, Sherlock shrugged and shook his head, “Nothing. We’ll see, that’s all,” he replied in an eye closing sigh and a tip of his head. “Carry on.”

Hesitating for a second, John looked up at him, wondering whether to press the issue or not, but in the ended decided that it was clearly to do with performance worries and didn’t want to start another argument, another back and forth, and so left it where it was and continued his touches. Perhaps it was because it was sooner than normal that Sherlock had confidence issues? John kissed Sherlock’s ribs gently, keeping him guessing at the random order of his strokes to both cock and prostate and then ran his hand up the inside of one tensed thigh to cup his testicles again, letting his index finger slip further to stimulate his prostate from the outside.

With a filthily guttural groan, Sherlock leaned into and over John, rocking the heated perspiring skin of his chest against John’s face, knocking his nose and filling his senses, encompassing him within the enchanting fog of sex, “ _Yes_ ,” he exhaled against the top of John’s head as he shifted, muffling his gasping breaths into John’s hair and twitching within the confines of John’s hands.

Focussing on making Sherlock come, and come hard, John strained for Sherlock's nipples, licking and sucking them until they were swollen and red against the soft pink of his chest. He wanted so badly, so obsessively, and he tried not to let it entirely consume him, keeping his ministrations controlled. John continued to probe at Sherlock’s prostate, fondling, kneading, and tugging on his balls before wrapping his fingers back around Sherlock’s cock and holding tightly. He didn't move it, didn't stroke or coax Sherlock to buck into his clasp, he simply held on, thumb circling and pushing against the sensitive frenlum beneath the now internally slick condom.

Becoming more and more vocal, Sherlock squirmed and keened, lifting his head when his climax was imminent and grabbing hold of John’s arms, “ _Oh_! Yes… _fuck_ …” he whimpered, frantically snapped his hips forward as he went taut and abruptly held his breath on the first body moving convulsion, then shouting when his cock roughly pulsed, releasing spurt after spurt of thick ejaculate within the latex casing.

John watched in aroused reverence, keeping his fingers away from Sherlock's prostate now so not to overwhelm him and loosening his grip on the pulsing throbbing cock, eyes focussed on Sherlock gorgeous face, “ _Kiss me_ ,” he muttered.

Dazed and breathless, Sherlock glanced down at him, panting lips already swollen and wet, “As your reward?” he crooned, bending his head down to slot their noses together. “Or a thank you?”

The smirk that turned up Sherlock’s mouth was brazen and provocative, and it felt as complacent as it looked when it crashed against John’s responding, bemused smile. John deepened the kiss immediately, setting a punishing rhythm, teeth clacking against one another, tongues curling and battling, and giving a few slobbering sucks at Sherlock’s glorious lips for good measure. He was beyond horny now, cock wet tipped and peeking through the hole in his boxers, arching up in a desperate attempt to get stimulation, to get inside Sherlock.  
  
“I just like kissing you,” John whispered once he pulled back, leaning and sucking another mark into Sherlock's torso, his stomach with a winding grin.

“Mm, so I noticed,” Sherlock breathed in reply with a nod, tensing his thigh and pelvis muscles to send his still twitching length bobbing. “But you like _taking_ me more, don’t you John?”

“I like _everything_ about this,” John told him and carefully pulled his fingers from Sherlock and wiped the lube onto his boxers, “But seeing you bouncing on me is _definitely_ a firm favourite.”

Sherlock gave a throaty laugh, canting his hips and stroking a promiscuous thumb into the soft seam of John’s mouth to briefly rub along the edge of his bottom teeth, “ _Good_ ,” he purred, watching with widening pupils when John licked at his thumb tip, tasting chocolate and sweat.

“Hand me the second condom,” John said before he sucked Sherlock's thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and around, then sucking it seductively, “I'm _desperate_ to have you. I don't think you realise how aroused I am by you...”

“Tell me then,” Sherlock replied as he leaned away to collect the packet, opening it with nimble, meticulous digits and reaching down to cup, roll, grope, and keenly fondle John’s cock through his underwear flap. “How desperate are you, John? How much do you _ache_ for me? How many times have you thought about throwing me down and _taking_ me wherever you find me?” He glanced to the sofa impishly. “Bet you thought about it last night, didn’t you? You saw me there, laid out and pliant, and you _wanted_ me. Wanted to strip me, mark me, cover me, and _fuck_ me until I _begged_ you to do it more… so much more.”

Moaning loudly, John let his head fall back and his eyes shut. It wasn’t true. None of it. Last night he had been focussed on Emma and solely on her, but now that he was with Sherlock, now Sherlock was saying the things he had once fantasied about, he could imagine a range of more possibilities, an endless amount of fun and thrills that they could indulge upon together. He wanted it all. Wanted more than he could think up.  
  
“Whenever you sprawl on the sofa like that, your neck and collarbones look so pretty,” John mumbled with a low, excited voice, “I keep getting the urge to tilt your head back and thrust my _cock_ down your throat. Watch your eyes widen as you control your gag reflex and _swallow_ me down. Hands clasped tight into your thighs as you fight the urge to touch yourself.”

Humming in pure sexual interest, Sherlock pulled John’s straining shaft out into the humid air between them, slipping on the condom languidly, alluringly, and pressing his nose to the base of John’s neck, “I was tempted to join you, you know,” he murmured, startling a shudder from deep within John’s centre at the admittance. “Or at least watch you. I’ve done it in the past. Observed how you _mounted_ them, how you _plunged within_ , staking a claim to every _inch_ of them that you could. _Inside and out_.”

“Oh _fuck_...” John moaned, suddenly realising that now he knew that fact, now he knew that Sherlock had already sat and watched him, in secret, huddled outside the door, the thought of them finding someone else for John to bed while Sherlock watched seemed a lot more alluring. Like a newly discovered kink. Inhaling and nuzzling at Sherlock’s curls, John swallowed audibly, shivering with desire. “Did… did you touch yourself? When you watched… when you saw me fuck them? Did you make yourself come? Silent and hidden...”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock disclosed quietly, dragging his lips to John’s ear, exhaling there with a shaking moan. “Sometimes I didn’t _have_ to touch. Sometimes just watching, listening, and _tasting_ you in the air, sent me over the edge...”

John bit back on a whimper, hands grabbing tightly for Sherlock's buttocks, head spinning and cock jerking with desperate need, “You're killing me,” John growled, voice cracking, “I _need_ you… fuck, _please_. I need to feel you around me. _On me_. I want you breathing into my mouth as we fuck, as we come together. Please let me? _Please_?”

Sherlock pressed a hot, wet kiss to John’s earlobe, nuzzling the skin just behind it, “ _Take me_ then,” he exhaled heavily, angling his hips and bringing his bent his legs up at John’s sides as he flexibly aligned himself and balanced on his feet, which he tucked into the edges of the seat. It was quite a thing to witness. John knew he was agile yet to see him contort his tall, lean frame, hungry for sex, for John, was quite another thing altogether, and he could do nothing but gape in astonishment as Sherlock reached for down, nudging the throbbing head of John’s heavy erection into his clenching, slicked, greedy body. “ _Have me, John_.”

With an almost feral growl that he couldn’t control, John bucked up into Sherlock's heat, stretching and pushing him open. It was pure bliss. As always. Perfection. However, regardless of how lost in lust John already was, he didn't want to hurt his friend, his lover, and so paused to give him some time, allowing Sherlock to become accustomed to the angle, before pulling out and pushing in a little further. With every thrust, every press, Sherlock choked on a small grunting groan until finally John’s cock was fully sheathed, his balls slapping up against Sherlock's parted buttocks as John held them open wide. It was an incredible feeling. Sherlock was so tight and hot around him, so good, so fantastic, that John knew that it wouldn't take long for him to career over the edge of his own climax.  
  
“I want to _fuck_ you over the end of the sofa,” John said with a thrust, modifying his hips to catch Sherlock's prostate, “and over the table. Maybe even fuck you against a window so everyone can see how much you _love_ my cock. - I'll make you come hands-free and spatter each surface with your come, over and over and over again as I _pound_ into you!”

Moaning licentiously, Sherlock curled his arms around John’s shoulders and clung to him, already pushing down to meet each hip push, “ _Yes_ ,” he gasped, twitching and wriggling when John finally nudged into his prostate not once, but three times in quick succession. It forced a warbled wheezing cry from him and a whine for more. “On… on the stairs to your room. I want it there… I want you to… to… to trap me against the steps, to pin me down and… _bugger_ me into them.”

“ _Christ_ , yeah! And… and you could tie me up,” John panted, letting words release from him without thought, letting his sexual dreams that he barely acknowledged at the best of times free and moved his hand from Sherlock's bottom to slap it hard, leaving a hot patch on the soft, pale skin. “You could tie me up in my bed and use me _however_ you want. Fuck _my_ throat, cover me in come… ruh-ride me until we’re both raw!” He gasped, toes curling into the carpet, utterly overcome by his own suggestions.

“...Smack… smack me again,” Sherlock begged with a violent shiver, grinding their bodies together, his cock still thick and hard, jerking between them, latex still somewhat in place and catching and rubbing on the soft hair below John’s belly button, “ _please_ … John… _again_ …”

Following Sherlock's orders as usual, John slapped him on both buttocks, one at a time, getting harder and faster, each blow forcing Sherlock to rock and grind down, pushing gasps from John as he threw his head back, hips snapping up in desperation for relief, “I'll put my hand around your throat again next time… and… and _fuck_ you into the mattress,” he promised.

Knocking his forehead to John’s temple, Sherlock whined and bit at his ear as they picked up the pace together, “… _God…_ fuck… _fuck me_ , John,” he mewled, quietly for a moment and then with more vigour, more volume, clutching at John’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks. “Get in _deep…_ fuck me. _Harder_ …”

Slapping Sherlock's arse again and again, John rammed up, feeling his orgasm coiling tight within him and knowing, without a doubt, that it was going to be intense, “I'm getting close… can _feel_ it— _Jesus_ you feel _too_ good… it's … it's… _fuck_! I'm _so_ close, Sherlock!”

“Give it to me…” Sherlock choked, pushing their mouths together in a suffocating kiss and rubbing against him. Pelvis, hips, and waist circling, rutting, writhing, and canting as he let out a roar of pleasure, sound barely muffled by John’s tongue. His body went tight, quivered, and then gave several, violent, strong spasms, in sync with the sudden stiff twitch of his cock as John’s orgasm came swelling within him.

“ _I'm coming_ ,” John hissed against Sherlock's trembling lips, “Fuck… _Sherlock_ … fuck!” Clawing his hands into Sherlock's buttocks, he pulled him down, penetrating and deep as he spiralled into climax. John found himself wondering, as he felt each intense pulse run through his cock, what it would feel like to come inside Sherlock without the condom, to feel how slick and wet it would be as he came into the hot, tight passage, and he cried out at the mental image. He wanted it. He had wanted it since the start. Wanted to be bare inside Sherlock and fill him up, to own him. The thought extended his orgasm and he shivered and shuddered, his hips giving a few weak thrusts while he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

Letting out a rush of breath, Sherlock collapsed against him in return, head falling to one side to rest on his shoulder, “You _really_ are,” he said vaguely and out of the blue between gasping inhales and clumsily petting the side of John’s face with a quiet laugh. “You really are the… the most _top-quality_ lover I have… I have had to date. You give me the biggest and best orgasms. Each one is… _spectacular_. The _best_ I’ve had.”

John smiled a languidly smug smile, nuzzling against Sherlock's curls and stroking up his supple back, feeling goosebumps flushing under his touch, “Yeah?” he mumbled, nudging his nose against his hot scalp and reached behind him for the now crumpled blanket draped over the chair headrest, to bring it across Sherlock’s slumped frame to keep him warm, “Well, you're pretty good yourself, you know.”  
  
“ _Good_? _Just_ good? - I tell you that you’re the _best_ I’ve had and all you’ve got to say in response is that I’m just ‘ _pretty good_?’” Sherlock grumbled, lifting his hips to let John slip free. “I take it back. I take it _all_ back.”

“Sherlock, you've just given me one of the most powerful orgasm of my life, one of many,” John huffed, pulling Sherlock back down and against him for a soft cuddle, “my brain doesn't work. You are, of course, the _best_ person I've ever slept with. _Ever_. Nobody even compares. Not even _close_...” He trailed off for a few seconds, wondering if he was saying too much, but found himself unable to stop. “I’d _never_ stop having sex with you if I had the choice. We'd be joined at the groin forever.”

Sherlock visibly preened, looking haughtily contented, and readjusted his legs to a more comfortable position, “You _could_ change your mind after you’ve bedded a few men?” he murmured, stroking patterns into the sweat dotted down John’s chest and abdomen. “Doubtful, but still. It’s a possibility. A very _small_ one.”

“Why would I want anyone else when I can defile my chair with you?” John asked, smirking as he kissed Sherlock's forehead, cheeks, and neck. “Unless you wanted to spy on us...”

“Hm. I might,” he grinned back with a rolling shrug that threatened to push the warm blanket from where John had tucked it. “Could give you some tips.”

“Mmm, coach me through my shags?” John laughed, trailing his hand from Sherlock’s spine down to stroke along Sherlock's thighs and back, “Nah. Seems pointless. Might as well cut out the middleman and just keep shagging you.”

Sherlock ducked his head coyly and stretched, pushing his hair back, eyes on John’s face with a sigh, “You really have decided not to? After one failure? - You need sex more than I do and it could clearly satisfy you if you had access to it,” he drawled. “You _keep_ saying as such. Moaned about the wait between bouts of hot, sweaty rumpy pumpy over and over and over.” His mouth curled into something soft and genuine, amusement making it wonky. “However, it’s really entirely up to you if you do or don’t find someone to have in-between moments with me.”

Letting his hands rest gently on Sherlock’s hips, tracing patterns there, John took a breath and nodded, “I – I won't say for definite that I will, but it's not something I'm going to actively seek. Not, uh, not now. - What I mentioned before, that really is probably better. I can just wank or use the fleshlight, until you're next up for it. And, if you were interested in doing so, you could come and sit with me, talk dirty. Something I've suddenly got quite into it seems. Both hearing it and… dishing it out.”

“I’ve heard some women talk that way to you,” Sherlock commented, leaning more heavily against him, trapping his now flaccid penis against John’s stomach, the condom half sliding off him, wet both outside and in. “And, _obviously_ , there is an abundance of it in pornography.”

“It doesn't have the same… appeal,” John admitted, shrugging his shoulders and gathering Sherlock closer, becoming suddenly playful. “For _some_ reason it sounds _so much better_ when it’s your voice in my ear uttering those filthy things. God knows why--”

“Yes, yes, all right.” Reaching up, Sherlock traced the shell of John’s ear with his fingertips and smirked at him, keeping his voice intimately quiet, letting their cheeks brush. “You said you like my voice. Always have.”

“Yeah… yeah, it’s a very unique voice. - You do an ' _oh_ ' sometimes at crime scenes...” John confessed, nudging his nose against Sherlock's and almost going in for a kiss before pulling back, “It's your ' _oh_ ' of discovery, of realisation, of amusement and it... does things to me. Since the start, I think, yeah. Whenever you do that ' _oh_ ' it makes my trousers _tight_.”

“...You shouldn’t have told me that,” Sherlock told him with a low-pitched chuckle, bowing his blushing, grinning face to rub against John’s jaw, throat and shoulder, like a cat.

“You're going to use it against me, aren't you?” John snorted through a giggle, squeezing Sherlock tight and then grimacing as he felt his used condom slickly slipped from his cock. “We're pretty disgusting, we should get up… and I'm fairly certain Mrs Hudson heard us. Again.”

Sherlock nodded with a one shouldered shrug but leaned back like a lithe snake to slither off John’s lap, the blanket dropping from him as he stood on tensing, shaking legs, “She was already awake when we started and is, currently, hoovering the kitchen,” he said with a tilted head, extending his index finger into the air pointedly at the distant buzzing vibration. When John nodded with an exhale of amusement at the man’s heightened hearing, Sherlock gave him a wink and bent down, collecting up his pyjamas and dressing gown with one hand, then cupping his genitals with the other. “Come on then.”

“Yeah?” John responded, pleasurably surprised. Normally they cleaned up separately after their encounters, with Sherlock tending to use baby wipes if the messes were mild and a shower, alone, if they were bigger.

Standing up on his own wobbly legs, John cupped himself to ensure he condom didn't slip or leak and headed across the living room, following Sherlock and his perky arse through the kitchen to their shared bathroom. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as he had thought? Perhaps he hadn’t ruined things himself, for them? This was better. This was good. This could work.

Couldn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
>  
> 
> [Kittie's Tumblr](http://kittiekatthings.tumblr.com/)  
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
